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tinyshe · 3 years ago

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This portrayal of an imagined 'goblin market', in which scary-looking goblins offer fruit to two terrified young women, was painted by English artist and Royal Academician Hilda Koe (1872-1936) c.1895-1901. There is very little available information on Koe, other than her membership of the RA. This remains her best-known work, painted in a style that shows a clear pre-Raphaelite influence.

Goblin Market Christina Rossetti Morning and evening

Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.” Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: ��Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.” Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

#poem #poetry #rossetti #goblin market

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lightbows · 4 years ago

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scrap of somethiiiing i’m working on again finally

idk if anybody cares at this point buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut it’s post rise of skywalker bc every time i think about that movie (which i did like) i am more frustrated about how it isn’t even about rey

so our space gal is looking for meaning Out There Somewhere...

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“I sense you are trying to do the impossible.”

“How so?” She sat back, regarding the monk with enough suspicion that he’d need no Whills’ instinct to detect it.

“It’s a heavy burden, a legacy.”

Rey nodded, unsure which of the loads she was presently trying to shoulder would drag her down first. “But not an impossibility. Everyone does it, in some way.”

“Everyone carries their own.” Abban flopped back on the sandstone behind him. It couldn’t be comfortable but he reclined with a stretch as contently as if hitting a feather bed. “You attempt to drag around two or three and none of them reach their destination.”

A deep breath pressed out a quick white-hot flame of anger, and the smirk on the monk’s face made it threaten to rise again. “You presume quite a lot,” she said in a clipped tone. “My legacy and theirs are one.”

“You tell me I presume,” he chuckled, kicking one leg over the other. “And then tell me I’m entirely correct. Master Skywalker, even far, far out here, your name preceeds you. Your story crosses that one you’re tangled up in, make no mistake. But the roots are far away and they’re getting all--” He made a wiggly gesture with his fingers that made Rey rather want to lop them off. “All dried up. Lucky you’re a desert plant, from what I’ve heard.”

Another person might have been speechless, while Rey was, not exactly to her credit, merely thoughtless. Words came easily enough as she shot to her feet. “You knew who I was this whole time!” Noble the words were not, a cracking edge to her voice that more recalled a complaining youth than a Jedi master. “And you play these games!”

“I like games,” he said in lieu of a defense, pulling himself upright again and scratching at his bristly shaved head. “Besides, you came here for wisdom you should be looking for in yourself. I offered what I could, which isn’t much.”

“That is a massive understatement.”

“Again, you pick out the self-serving parts of--” He interrupted himself with a short laugh and a shake of his head. “Let me tell you a story, Master Skywalker.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, because you’re already here, because your ship will take a day and a half to get its wings back, because I am just a little bit charming,” he spoke with his hands though the gestures did not seem connected to any words in particular. “Take your pick.”

Rey narrowed her eyes a moment, then sat. “It’s the second one,” she said firmly.

Abban carried on—showing some wisdom after all. “I had a teacher, who had a teacher, who had a teacher--”

“I’ve only a day and a half, please remember.”

“--who came from the old traditions. The really old ones, back from the days the Jedi all but erased from their history once politics got into it. So, this teacher’s-teacher’s-teacher—let’s call him Master Anyu. He was from the homeworld. He lived and worked and taught at the temples, just like generations before him as far back as anyone could remember. When he was a child, they always told him he didn’t have the gift.”

“The Force?”

“The Force, the Whills’ instincts, the ability to walk and talk at the same time. You name it. He was a clumsy kid who had a hard time learning, from a time and place that didn’t have either the means or the desire or either to give him a boost.”

“But he became a Master.”

“He became a Master.”

Rey rubbed her eyes, patience dwindling yet again. “Am I meant to be inspired?”

“Not really,” Abban said with a sigh. “He rose through the stages slowly and got there by sheer endurance, and was one of hundreds. Then he raised a generation that watched their home and spiritual centers stolen from beneath them and destroyed.” He smiled at Rey’s bewildered expression, which only made her more confused. “And I’m two generations removed from that.”

“But you know his name.”

“And now you do too.” He shrugged. “Is that a legacy? I don’t know. It’s a story. He wasn’t the first or the last or the greatest. He’s a man who lived a long time so his name was said a lot, and now I’m saying it again. Longevity isn’t worthiness though, you know? Not to speak ill of the man, but there’s next to nothing we know about the Guardians who came after him, who fought and died defending what he simply carried from one wing of the world to the other.”

“But his legacy is that those Guardians existed,” Rey murmured, eyes gazing past Abban down the long hallway of those who came before him. “They come from him, and your teachers come from them, and--”

“Master Skywalker, we respect our ancestors here, those in our blood and those in our memory. You do not need to preach to me about where I come from.” His tone was lighthearted, amused even, despite--or maybe because of--Rey’s immediate look of chagrin. “We remember where we came from but we do not try to use that path as a map. It only goes one way. You cannot finish someone else’s story. It is already finished, whether you liked the ending or not.”

The words struck her with a great force and she looked away, off to the horizon where a moon she hadn’t noticed before was beginning to poke its greenish-silver head over the hills. “What about our story?” She asked haltingly, at long last deferring to the wisdom she had, at least in name, come here to find. “The universal story—all of us creatures, together in the Force.”

“Asking the right questions is a good first step, Master Skywalker.” He drummed his fingers on his knee a moment, thinking. “So, what about it indeed? Surely you don’t think you have to write that story yourself.” Rey’s hesitation was heavy enough to compell the monk to simply step over it. “Or is it that you’re upset you can’t?”

The question itself wasn’t so bad, but Abban’s amused tone was enough to set Rey’s teeth on edge once more. “I am—I am simply looking for my place in all of this.”

“To give it to you straight,” he said, one eyebrow lifting. “It would be easier to believe that if you weren’t wearing two or three cloaks’ worth of borrowed identities...Master Skywalker.”

With that she was on her feet again, this time whirling around and storming towards her speeder without hesitation. The presumptuous fool, she fumed, thoughts loud enough that she wasn’t sure how much was internal and how much aloud. Luckily the rickety engine drowned out whatever uncharitable goodbye she may have had for Abban as she sped away once more, the grind of old gears and the miniature sandstorm in her wake a familiar lullaby for her anger.

The notion of circling back to the city, where Abban’s fellow monks would be waiting with further wisdom was unbearable, so she found herself reverting to certain old habits, turning the vehicle toward the emptiest expanse of sand imaginable and driving as far as she dared. It was the kind of thing that used to have the dual purpose of clearing her head and possibly leading to a profit, some abandoned craft deep in the wasteland of an entirely different desert that might have paid for a meal or two. Now it was to avoid the food and warmth and company that waited in the other direction—still a meditation of sorts.

Settling into a glide around a dune, with the knowledge she’d soon need to circle back, it would have been easy for another person to miss: the mostly constant, fuzzy sound of sand whipping beneath repulsorlifts gradually grew less steady, the sound of stone pinging off the lower hull breaking through Rey’s thoughts. No—not stone. Rey slowed, lowering one boot to the ground, and was immediately greeted with another crunch. Glass—real glass, not transparisteel. More and more of it, as if she’d suddenly driven over only the narrowest edge of an enormous shattered mirror, stretching to the horizon and beyond. And then, hitting even harder than the sound, the feeling up ahead, the sense of enormous tragedy sealed inside a horrible glittering cage.

#star wars #fanfic #Fic

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missingartist · 4 years ago

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The Witcher’s Mate- Chapter 20

In his 350 years, he had thought he had seen it all. Vesemir the unofficial head Witcher had spent years traipsing up, and down the country, he knew every path and detail of any town worth knowing to a Witcher. However, in his lifetime he did not foresee having to deal with a Witcher’s mate. Barmin, his master had glossed over it in training, dismissing the idea of it being any use. In his training, he and other fledgeling Witchers had become intrigued with the concept, but the master had been dismissive enough to toss them a copy of The Witcher- A History. With a whole chapter dedicated to the Witcher’s Mate. Being privileged enough to witness the building of the Witcher home he knew every book placed in the library and this battered copy preserved the only mentions of soulbonds in the entire Witcher section of the library. Barmin had mentioned that it was a Witcher’s Curse to be bound to another who would wither and die or who would face dying of a broken heart as the life of a Witcher was a dangerous one before placing the book back on the shelf where it gathered dust for the past 300 years. Till now that was.

Making his way up the gritty staircase, books wedged underneath his arms, he let the soft glow of the candlestick light his way from the archive and through the winding halls. Mermaid literature held little room in the main library; Witchers had no dealing with Merfolk for 400 years, he himself only met two. The first was a stunning female, long green hair and pale olive skin, a tail of metallic blue scales, pulling the fresh Witcher from a stormy sea when drowners pinned him down in the murky depth. She had all the makings of the predator, savage and vicious yet in the cave which she dragged him, she had all the tenderness of a maiden. She was inquisitive and powerful, and to the newly made Witcher, she was direct in her wants, spending the night and day making very extensive use of his body. A smile stretched across his feature, and he remembers the dalliance of his youth. The other had been a Trition, the male of the species, while not a beautiful as the female he had been majestic in his airs. He had been just as predatory as the female but seemed to lack in power of the female, it did not have the sharp barbs of teeth, or the ability to walk on earth demanded help to free a water sprite from a tree curse. If indeed the Adva girl was a mermaid it would cause a lot of difficulties. Mermaids where predators plain and simple, with very complex social structures and even more complicated mating rituals, one that they kept closely guarded. This was going to be near impossible. Witcher bonding was going to be difficult enough to get their heads around it didn’t really need the extra stress of figuring how a mermaid bonded. He envisaged many nights slaving over a manuscript.

The library fire is dying. The low flame dominated the dwindling wood giving the room a soft light. He had, on being regaled with all the details excused himself to the archives, Barmin having moved all the Merfolk down there to add a room to the main collection. It had taken the best part of the afternoon to weedle through the mass of papers and books that had chaotically thrown into to achieve with no accord. Dropping the various scrolls and manuscripts, he settled himself into his leather-bound seat and placed the candlestick back in its holder—the soft flare of flame illuminating a slim figure perched on the window ledge.

‘Dove, I thought you would be in bed.’

‘Not sleepy…been an eventful day.’ Ciri rolled her shoulder, standing.

Moving from her perch, she fed the fire three thick blocks of wood, watching as the room was lit up with the roaring orange flame. The food she had gathered of dried meat, cheese and wine still sat untouched, Jaskier had tried to tempt Adva with the cheese and wine to no avail. Picking up the jug, she poured two generous helpings into the spare goblets and sat opposite the master Witcher.

‘I don’t think I would be able to sleep if I had seen Geralt finally put it to Yennefer. I would have properly celebrated so hard I would be drunk for a fortnight.’ The older man laughed picking up his goblet and throw back his contents, red droplets staining his white beard pink. ‘It would be Geralt that got mixed up with a soulmate who had to be a mermaid. He can’t live simply, even as…Has someone fixed the wall.’ Vesemir gawped at the wall by the window. The peeling stone wall had been replastered and the drafted that has previously whistled through the library on a cold night was no more. He had meant to repair it for the last fortnight, but the north-west staircase was in need of refurbishing, the barn needed to be mended, three chimneys needed sweeping and renovating and the long list of other restorations.

‘Adva and she reputtied the windows.’ the answer was tense and dry as she brought her cup to her lips and took a sip of the strong liquid.

‘She’s been her ten hours, and she replastered a wall and fixed a window? At least Geralt has the brains to pick a useful mate; I wonder if she does roofing.’ Vesemir gruffed, filling his goblet and downing it once again.

Ciri could feel annoyance rise within her, Vesemir was always dismissive and so distant from his emotions he couldn’t understand her concern. Since arriving, Adva had used the plaster in the hallway, despite their protest she spent most of the day fixing the wall and cleaning, Jaskier had tried to pull her away, but she looked near tears and battered their concerns away. Both Jaskier and Ciri sank back and watched Adva flit around the room, dusting, mopping and polishing. Ciri had never seen the library look so clean. In the space of ten hours, she had fixed the library and cleaned three full rooms before her eyelids began to droop, and Jaskier scooped her away before she could protest and tucked her tightly into a bed in one of the many rooms while Ciri searched through many garments that had cluttered up closets and chests from long forgot herbalists and Witchers that had come and gone to replace her outfit.

‘Vesemir! I am worried about Adva; a person doesn't start repairing buildings when they learn that they are a Mermaid and a Soulmate.’

‘And you know the extensive guide on how someone needs to react when they discover they are a Mermaid or a soulmate, was hardly worth me spending all day in the archives with such an expert already here.’ Vesemire scoffed, his eyes glancing against the bundle he had gathered with some concern. The few books that he found would have little in them to help with their… unique situation.

‘That not what I meant.’ the young woman sulked, pushing her bottom lip out as far as it could go.

‘Do you remember when you discovered your bloodline? It took us three weeks to stop you hacking the dummy to bits. People cope with things differently. If I had to meet Yennefer again, I probably devote myself to fixing the whole castle. You care a lot about Adva, don’t ya? Empathy is the downfall of a Witcher.’ Vesemire scolded. He didn’t know how many time he had tried to drum that into her and Geralt.

‘I…I do I see a lot of myself in her. Alone and confused, betrayed and powerful but scared about it.’ Ciri sighed.

It hurt to admit; it was traumatic. The early years of her life had been so lovely, but the last decade, wave after wave of people had tried to claim her for themselves. Kings seeking power, Witches seeking power, Cults seeking power. They were all the same, trying to imprisoner, impregnate or kill her. It left her feeling insecure and uncertain; she had been betrayed so many time she had lost count. That unlimited power made her a target for every crazed group that emerged from the shadows, but it also made her scared, the power within her had a fine line between chaos and control, and with that enormous pressure to remain in control. Her deepest fear was herself, and what she could do or become, she sensed that same fear in Adva.

‘You have only just met her, don’t get too attached. Yennefer will find a way to get rid of her if not that she’ll turn into a she-daemon knowing Geralt's taste in women.’ Vesemir scoffed dryly.

Geralt was the son he had never had, but his taste in a woman was shocking, there had been that redhead succubus who tried to eat him. The doomed princess in the tower, Renfri. Three herbalists, Triss and Yennefer. He should just stick to a whore like everyone else, it would save a lot of time and effort, and the damage Kaer Morhan would be minimal, the amount of time Yennefer had destroyed something because of a petty argument was unbelievable. Ciri stood abruptly and started to pace.

‘Dove, what troubles you?’

‘I…Yennefer has been….I dunno. She has been difficult…’

‘Yennefer difficult? Never?’ The laughedffff trickled from the witcher lips.

‘Before they…parted. Yennefer did something….horrid and tried to get Geralt to finish it… he refused, and Yennefer was vicious, and then the spell broke and….’

‘Went batshit?’

‘Batshit is an understatement…. I thought Geralt was wrong… that he should have but I dunno; I was so angry I was blinded.’ Ciri winced at her confession.

For the most part, she never admitted when she was wrong; she was too stubborn for that; her pride would not allow her the humiliation of accepting it. But there were times, time like these when things became a cluster fuck that she could admit it. Her love for her mother figure, her nurturer and teacher had blinded her to the sheer despicable nature of Yennefer plan, so much so it had made her hate Geralt. But with every passing day, she realised how stupid she had been. Looking back made her wince with shame as she recalled all the unpleasant thoughts that went through her mind and the things she said. Ciri felt ashamed of herself, more so now she was in the Witcher’s Fortress where the memories of their relationship[ resurfaced, all the times Geralt had protected her from the violent tongue lashing of Vesemir for wondering off and training on her own. The times when he gave her a silent hug because he knew what she needed.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Yennefer has a knack for playing on one's emotions.’ The master witcher soothed in his gruff voice.

Looking up, she felt herself smiling. For all his stubborn grumpiness Vesemir was the kindly grandfather figure she needed. The bias spectator, guiding her through Geralt and Yennefer many, many arguments with a scoff and an eye roll.

‘I worry about what she will do to Adva. She already seems resigned to being cast aside, and Yennefer will play on that.’

The confession was not something she needed to say out loud; all of them were worried about what Yennefer would do; even Adva could sense it. Yennefer was capable of being truly malicious especial again those who had wronged her,

‘Maybe that is for the best. A Witcher’s life is one fought with danger having a soul mate would be even more so.’

‘You should have seen the way Geralt was with her Vesemir. The way he looked at her was…’ Ciri paused for a moment in thought ‘it was worshipping…I don’t even know how to describe it and when she flinched away from him, I thought he could break down. When she went through the portal, I thought he was going to roar in after her. I love Yennefer, I always will, nothing and no one will change that, but at the minute I don’t even what to be near her.’

A dull pain began to throb in the corner of his left eye; there was not enough ale and wine in the whole of the castle to get him through the next couple of weeks. Damn Geralt. First, he had brought Yennefer, who destroyed every room she stayed in and threw furniture carved by their Witcher founders out the window. The elder had lost count of how many times in the past decade, Geralt had found himself at the end of a difficult situation. And this situation was the worse; soulmates were messy, and for Witcher, mates were rare and unpredictable. Geralt would be a muscle-bound mess of raging hormones, worse than when he first mutated and with Yennefer roaming around, lurking in every corner, he could feel the annoyance and irritation begin to build.

‘It will work out, for better or worse. But from what I know about soul bond, they are very powerful, and it would take more then Yennefer to do that….besides if she is that good at repairs, we need to keep her around.’

If he survived this, it would be a miracle.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kaer Mohen was beyond anything that she had ever believed. Nestled in the middle of a vast valley, built into a mighty mountain, the almighty structure was awe-inspiring. Surrounded in greenery and limpid pools as far as the eyes could see, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. Inside did not disappoint; it was elegant, chequered marble flooring, latticed woodwork, majestically carved furniture, and rugs that while worn and dusty were exquisite. However, it was sure that the castle had seen better days, gaping holes in the roof leaked into the rooms letting in the local wildlife. Plaster was coming off the wall in large chunks, and a sharp draft came whistling through the castle. Still, it the most amazing place that she had ever seen. The library included. The vast collection of books held in sturdy mahogany shelved held behind thick sheets of glass, it was an extensive collection, most in languish she had never seen before, and the desire to pull each one out and read was overwhelming. The library seemed sadly empty just one large table and one comfy chair perched in the middle, books and quills surrounding the work area.

Vesemir seemed to be making the most of her, giving her a list of chores in the morning and then after their midday meal they would group together and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in the library. In all honestly, that was fine with her, she didn’t want to think about soulbond or Geralt. A sickness bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Waking up in the bed in a musty room brought back that only the day before she woke in the warmth of the Witcher. At least the chore distracted her from the churn of emotion that built inside of her and the anxiety that came with letting her mind wander.

‘How can you read this.’ Ciri slipped down next to the women who was engrossed in a book that contained mostly scribbled lines and dots. Just looking at the page was enough to give the former princess a headache.

‘Lunch’ Vesemir called slamming what could only be loosely described as a strew on the table. Four clay bowl slide into the various place, as they stared down at the brown slop. ‘That is my famous stew.’

The elder Witcher glared at the bard who grimaced at the pot in front of him. The mixture was brown and gritty, whatever meat was unrecognisable, the smell of a mixture of fermented broth and fried meat, it was not unpleasant, but it was not particularly appetising especially with strange unknown bits floating on the top. Jaskier twisted his face in disgust as he poked at it with his wooden spoon.

‘Famous because it kills anyone who eats it?’ Jaskier question letting the food slide off his spoon with a spatter.

Vesemir stared daggers at the bard as he is inhaling another spoonful of stew, most of it coating his beard.

‘Don’t you have any more books on Merfolk Vesemir?’ Ciri asked, leafing through the pile of red books scattered over the bench.

‘Mermaid isn’t the sort of thing Witchers deal with.’

‘But aren’t they supernatural creature.’ Jaskier retorted his right eyebrow inching up his forehead.

‘Aye, bard they are but never given us cause. Merfolk sticks to deep water and out the way of humans and creature alike. Humans have tried to wage war on them in the early days, but it futile. You aren’t ever gonna win against a creature that can sink whole fleets of ships in one go.’ Another heaping spoonful of stew smeared across his mouth. ‘Time from the time they appear near land but never bother anyone; it does not like they would abandon one of their pod on land…especially a child. I will have enough look in the archive but the literature of the Merfolk in rare. Not many have ever got close enough. I know a while back Geralt helped some duke marry Sh'eenaz, a mermaid, but she became sad, and the couple went back to the sea kingdom.’

‘So we have no idea about anything.’ Ciri spoke, slowly eyes resting on the deflated other woman.

‘You are more than welcome to search down in the archive, but most merfolk literature is hoarded by private collectors.’

‘So we don’t know anything.’ Ciri bite out and throw a thick book across the room, pages fluttering across the marble floor.

Jaskier reached a hand across and took Adva’s giving her a reassuring squeeze. The brown-haired woman closed the book, shoulder sagging.

‘Adva If you promise to cook from now on I will go in the archives myself and battle the army of spiders in search of anything else.’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Vesemir brought down the axe forcefully as he broke down the log and tossed it into the giant pile of firewood. From his place on the verge, he watched Adva.

Though, not the most skilful and hone in her technique Adva was accomplished. For a simple kitchen, she had a strong stance which made it hard for Ciri to break through her defence. There was no obvious contest between the two, Ciri was the more skilled and her magic more adaptive, there had been several points in which his young ward had the upper hand, but Adva managed to put on the defence, which she played well. The master Witcher didn’t see that predatory creature that he had met in his experience, just a determined young woman, strong and sweet. He found it hard to believe that she could be a mermaid. Her ability with water being the only real characteristic that they shared. There was no killer insisted, no savage passion within her, no flailing tail or hissing fangs, just a scared little girl that he now had to keep safe.

Slamming the axe down Vesemir took himself to the side to watch the pair closely. Ciri seemed to tire of being pushed back, stepped up her attack by using her blink power, teleporting her way around her. The gruff Witcher couldn’t help but smile, the little girl who would sneak off to practice on her own was no a skilled warrior. Adva’s movement became panicked and jilted as she dodged the attack, frustration ebbing in her every movement. Collecting his roofing tools, he made his way across the stall and once against back to the field to collect the ladder. This time Ciri seemed to be on the back foot. Adva’s attacks were precise and direct, one after the other. A water blast threw the young Witcher off her footing, causing her to stumble back, and whip of water then appeared out of nowhere lashing itself across her side and wrapped itself around her wrist slamming her into the dirt.

Vesemir stilled, his body is tensed his eye trained on the pair, grabbing for the axe he embedded in the tree stump. He saw it, the killer instancing, the way her eyes shone that little bit brighter. Ciri recovered well, shifting her body to the left in a blur of blue light escape the confines of the water vines before rolling up on her feet and brushing the dust off.

Adva blinked, several times swallowing heavily as she took a step back as she felt the adrenaline still racing through her vein.

‘Good attack. Never really seen anything like that.’ Ciri smiled, standing to her full height. ‘Next time I won't go so easy on you. I better go see how Jaskier is doing. The spiders have properly cornered him in archives. We will pick this up again tomorrow…but you are going down’ Ciri smirked, nodding at Vesesir before ascending the step of the balcony.

‘I see Ciri found you some clothing, more practical for doing maintenance. You can help me patch up the roof, get the tar and meet m by the ladder.’

Looking down, she pulled at the outfit she had been given from a large box of items left by the various people that passed through. The bottoms were a pair of duelling trousers made from a shammy leather material, making them soft and stretchy, that held her tight across the arse and allowed for free movement. They were at least 50 years old but kept pristine by the mothballs packed in the trunk of clothing. The deep red material suited her and at least didn’t show the dirt from the unkept castle. The top was an oversized tunic that fell to mid-thigh; it was thick enough to keep the chill that had started to cling in the air. A cracked old belt clinched tightly around her waist to keep the oversized garments from slipping off her body completely.

Pushing her way up the steep bank to the courtyard, Adva pulled the bubbling tar from its fire. The courtyard held the shed and the stables it was up at the top of a sharp incline; it leads all the way round to the training grounds which Ciri had been handing her ass to her for the best part of the day, a sense of pride swelled within her as she laid the foul-smelling tar into a bucket. She had managed to keep upright and had a few good hits, she was improving, and her powers had developed in the passing weeks with Triss. Training with Ciri proved that.

When the bucket was full, tentatively she pulled it up the ladder on top of what she thought was a storage shed beside the kitchen. Vesemir was already hard at work, hammering in think sleet slate into the missing patches. Wordlessly, the master witcher tossed her a tarring brush, a thin stick with a rag attached to it and nodded toward the slates. Between the old tiles was a thick layer of tar, filling any minute gaps in which the water to seep through and flood the room beneath. Adva swilled the brush into the thick liquid and plastered around the edges of the shingles.

The height was not her favourite, the mere thought of going any higher made her head spin. They worked in silence for the best part of an hour, as soon as he finished one, she would swoop in and slather the thick goop on the slabs. It was clear to see where Geralt got his mannerisms, the way they both puckered their brow when they were concentrating. The way their eyes shifted as they worked, head shifting at every noise. These features were not different that Geralt could not pass for his son, but Adva had made a deep study of Geralt, his features where sharper, more defined. Both men had strong physic, after years of training and monster hunting, but Geralt's frame seemed bulkier, shoulders broader and arms solid with muscle.

A deep wave of shame consumed her. She had promised herself she wouldn’t think of him, but he crept into her mind. A melancholy fell over her, it was a numbness, at gnawed at her core.

‘Next is the west staircase, I will teach you how to tack and shave down the boards.’ Vesemir grunted as he threw the hammer into the dirt as he made his way down the ladder. Holding out his hand to help Adva down, grabbing the bucket and brush and tossing it to the side.

Adva nodded, thankful for something to do.

‘Never thought a little girl would be much good a roofing you are a strange little thing.’

Adva laughed awkwardly, wiping her hands on her piny. ‘You know what brothel is like, all hand on deck. I cooked, cleaned, mediated, fix roofs, walls, beds.’

‘Not much of a life for a little girl.’ Vesemir stared down at her; it was an uncomfortable gaze, that pierced through her.

The master witcher looked at her, his medallion didn’t vibrate, but there was a warmth to it, just enough to heat the skin beneath the wolfs head. He wasn’t sure that she was a Mermaid, but there was something. Something strange. Something different that he could put his finger on. But now she looked like a scared little girl, a girl being dragged from one bad situation to the next. Tough and hard-working but most of all, frighten of that power within her. It bubbled under the surface, threatening to rear its head.

‘Last time I check I was a woman…well, Mermaid.’ Adva shot him a steely determined look. He wasn’t sure what she was determined about, but it made him give out a snort, it reminded him of Ciri when she first stumbled into his home.

‘Well, Mermaid…we better get back. I think Jaskier is dying for more of my cooking.’ The older man gave her a small smile as he guided them through the courtyard.

For once, he was as near as excited as a Witcher could be to see Yennefer again, as he could tell that sweet little maid was going to give her a run for her money. A deep smirk set into his features, if he had anything to do with it, Yennefer would definitely have a run for her money.

This was supposed to be out last weekend, but drama has got real. I work in a school, and it’s a mess. I have been trying to sort out all my evidence for a qualification I have been doing, which is draining, and family are having health issues. But I am happy to announce that smut is insight. I have been planning out future chapters, and they are looking good.

For those of you who are confused about Adva’s coping strategy, I sort of based it on me. When I get stressed or anxious I turn into a clean freak. Recently, I got so stressed I actually put up several shelves, despite not having anything to put on them. I thought it would make her a little more realist.

I am also having flashes of inspiration for a GeraltxOCxEskel story if anyone is interested. I love Eskel he is like a giant cuddly teddy bear! It properly won't be out till I finish The Witchers Mate, but I am also playing with a squeal which is just a series of one-shots.

Please let me know what you think!

@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png

#geralt smut #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia #witcher geralt #Geralt #geralt imagine #the witcher #netflix the witcher #witcher netflix #geralt x oc #geralt x smut

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alamhigyoooo · 4 years ago

Text

nameless

you have lived a thousand thousand lives, but at the end you are still the same boy who fell in love with her under the moonlight.

(emet-selch/hades x warrior of light)

[read it here on ao3]

Your name is Hades, and you are just a boy when you fall in love for the first time.

She is standing in the ocean waves, clutching her robes to her chest. Tiny little turtles waddle from the sandy shore into the dark abyss of the sea, floating with the current around her ankles.

“Just think, Hades,” she says, kneeling down to peer at the infant turtles. “So many lives, traveling out to explore the world. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Exciting?” you echo, unsure if you agree. “The world is so big, and we’re just children. Doesn’t the thought of the unknown scare you?” The ocean, pitch black and endless, roars back, as if it hears the trepidation in your voice.

“Of course,” she says, and when she turns to you the moon shines through her eyes, refracting into a hundred shards of light across her cheeks. “Of course I’m scared. But that’s why I want to go and see it all, someday. It’s only unknown if we never seek to know it.”

Profound words from such a young soul - and the moment is broken by the crash of a wave that sends sea spray into her face. She shrieks in surprised joy, and you watch as she flounders in the water with hearty laughter.

(Your breath catches in your throat, and you’re not sure you understand why your chest feels so tight, but as she laughs in the waves you think that you’ve never heard anything so beautiful.)

Your name is Hades, and you have just become a different man.

“Hades!”

You turn away from the Convocation members - your new peers - and try not to smile too big as she floats across the room towards you. “I wondered where you’d drifted off to,” you call out, striding to meet her halfway. Behind you, there are soft whispers, amused chuckles, as the Convocation disperses into the greater crowd - but you pay them no mind.

“I certainly tried to find you, but you were swept up by someone else every time I got close,” she laughs, beaming. She reaches out and takes your hands in hers, and you feel your heart stop. “Congratulations! I told you that you’d make the Convocation one day.”

Ordinarily you’d smirk and agree with her - but as she looks up at you, kaleidoscope eyes peeking through her mask, your arrogance withers and you find yourself content to do nothing more than bask in her praise, her confidence in you.

“I’m thankful to have had your support,” you say stiffly, failing utterly to convey the gratitude you feel. “Someday you’ll be on the Convocation with me, too.”

She snorts, but squeezes your hands gently. “I don’t need to be.”

“You’re still going?” you ask in surprise, unable to hide some of the disappointment in your voice.

“I always said I would,” she tells you, and she squeezes your hands once more. “But you needn’t worry. I’ll come back, and I’ll have so many stories to tell you.”

There are too many things you want to say, and not enough time to say any of them. So you smile and say, “Very well. Safe travels, my friend.”

(It takes all of your willpower to not beg her to stay, and as she slips from your grasp you wish you’d said “I’ll be waiting for you”, too.)

Your name is Emet-Selch, and you feel the weight of the world upon your shoulders.

Her steps through the grass rouse you from your thoughts. Though your eyes are closed, you hear her settle beside you on the ground. “Brooding again?”

You crack one eye open and frown. “I’m not brooding. Unless you think the world’s impending doom isn’t worth the extra thought?”

She looks down at you, before slipping off her mask - her new Convocation mask, marking her status as Azem. Her crystalline eyes are full of worry. “You spend too much time alone and upset. No one could solve a problem, much less the fate of the world, in such a way.”

With a sigh, you push yourself up and face her. “Well, what would you have me do?”

Her back straightens, and she leans close to you. “Come with me,” she says earnestly, and you’re lost in her prismatic gaze. “Come travel the world with me. There’s so much to see - there’s bound to be something out there that will help you.”

It’s a touching sentiment - but nothing more. Your place is here, in Amaurot, as the guiding hand of your people. You offer her a tired smile. “Surely if there was a solution in the wider world, you would have found it already.”

“My mind is hardly as acute as yours,” she replies, and she pulls back. You know she’s heard the rejection in your words, and though you find relief in her acquiescence, her withdrawal still stings. “Perhaps if you were to see something with your own eyes, you might find inspiration.”

Her compliment soothes some of the ache in your heart, so you tell her, “Your faith in me is inspiring enough.”

(In another world, you would have said yes, because deep down, you long for her to whisk you away, to show you the world - to set you free.)

Your name is Emet-Selch, and you have lost everything there ever was to lose.

As you wander through the rubble of what used to be your home, you’re not sure if it’s possible for a man to lose anything more. Every being, every soul - splintered beyond repair, halved again and again, into pitiful shadows of the majestic creatures they once were.

Every being. Every soul.

Save yourself, of course; yourself, and Lahabrea, and Elidibus. The three of you now comprise the final remnants of what was the greatest people to ever walk the land.

“Architect,” says the Abyssal Celebrant, emerging from the ruins of the Capital. He is pale-faced, haggard, and you see in the lines of his body the same deep, deep horror you feel in your own.

“No one?” you rasp, even though you know the answer. You have known the answer.

He shakes his head; you close your eyes and swallow down a sob, a scream.

(She had been there, to warn everyone, to warn you - and you turned her away like a fool, bitter and hurt and blind. That is all you will ever be, now and forever: a fool, who missed and missed and missed his chances, and will never have another chance again.)

Your name is… you aren’t sure what your name is, anymore.

What life is this, your eighth? Your fifteenth? You can’t keep track anymore. These lives, all too brief and empty, somehow manage to blur together into a mass of nothingness, but you must persist.

Zodiark demands it.

Perhaps you are a lord - perhaps you are a peasant. Perhaps you are ruling an empire, pretending to care about the ants who mill about this world and believe bloodshed to be their birthright.

You tried - heavens know you tried. You tried so very hard, in the beginning, to let go of the past, to live and love and die among the newfound stewards of this star, these stars. You gave it your all, gave them your all, and still they failed you.

You will not be failed again.

So you tread through these broken shards, silent and deadly, seeking your fallen comrades spread thin across fourteen planes. Igeyorhm, Naibrales, Mitron and Loghrif. Viciously as you work to tear down the walls between worlds and return the Source to its true self, just as tenderly do you press each crystal to the hand of its bearer and restore their memories, their minds.

It breaks your heart to see their faces when they begin to understand their reality, what happened to their home. Ten times do you restore an ally, and ten times must you witness that heartbreak - your heartbreak - all over again.

(Alone, you shut your eyes and imagine finding her. When you find her, when you press the crystal you made for her into her palm, you pray that she will take peace in your presence, that you will not have to watch her heart shatter as well.)

Your name is about to disappear, and you are there to watch Azem die.

It isn’t her, not really - but you know that color and would know it anywhere, despite being muted and dulled by the Sundering. Millenia since you have seen it, but it is etched into your heart with clarity nonetheless.

You see her color first, in the gaggle of souls who think they will escape the doom of the Third Shard. At first you think it might be a figment of your imagination, a ripple in the magic which makes you invisible to the untrained eye.

But it flashes by again, and again, and you are too weak to resist this chance to finally see her again. Like a moth to a flame, you let yourself be drawn to her color, pushing aside everything in your way to make it to her in time.

Time, after all, is dwindling - if not for you, then for her, and whose fault is that?

When you catch up to her shade, the ground is falling away at her feet, and she clutches to the side of a cliff wall with all the strength left in her body. Slowly, painfully, you let your magics slip away, revealing yourself with silence - a contrast to the howling of the earth around you.

The shade takes you in with wide eyes - eyes that are not right, not like hers. Violet, round, and afraid - not like hers.

Azem’s crystal is heavy in your pocket.

“Do I know you?” says the shard, and you are taken aback. You had expected a plea for help, a prayer for salvation.

You are not ready for the hand the shard reaches out to you, and like always, you miss your chance as the cliff fails her and she falls to her death far below.

(Nobody will ever know, but you search the Lifestream for her after, even though you know it will be in vain. She is gone, and you hate yourself for wishing she wasn’t. You vow that you will never look for her again.)

Your name is Solus zos Galvus, and you are bored.

“A toast, to Varis yae Galvus!” rings out through the dining hall, followed by a chorus of voices repeating, “To Varis!”

Boring. So very boring. A wedding for your grandsire, High Legatus Varis. As Emperor, it is your duty to attend such events, put on a show to bolster morale - but you despise it. There is nothing left worth celebrating in this world, you think.

The groom, your grandsire, rises from his seat, tall and imposing, so much like your son. Your pitiful dead son. You watch him lift his own glass, hear his voice booming through the hall, as he mechanically thanks the attendees for their blessings.

“How wretched,” you mutter under your breath, before wheezing as you push yourself into a better sitting position. The body you inhabit has cursed you with old age, feeble and decaying just like the rest of the sad remnants who surround you, and you long for a time when you may finally be free of it, to walk the world in youthful flesh.

At the sound of your fussing, all eyes in the room break from your grandsire and fixate on you, and you take small amusement in watching the bravado slip from your grandsire’s grasp.

Then his bride turns to look at you as well, with crystals glinting in her hair, and they reflect light in a way that makes you say “Pah!” and hobble your way out of the hall.

(Thrice cursed, in one night - to suffer through your own emotional failure, to sit through it all in an ailing body, and to be reminded of a love you will never see again.)

Your name is Emet-Selch, and your companions are useless.

Useless, you call them, though you tell yourself it’s well-meant. No matter how much you feud with them or gnash your teeth in frustration at them, deep down you love them. You can never say it, though - it lies in a box which cannot be opened, else other forbidden things come tumbling out.

But of course they would be useless when it comes to Hydaelyn’s champion - and suddenly, as you gaze upon the shard that people hail as “hero”, you are thankful that you locked away your love so long ago.

For who among them could turn on her shade?

Lahabrea tried, and failed twice. Naibrales lost, blinded by righteous fury and hate. Igeyorhm, too, silenced forever.

It’s cruel, but - you note with bitterness - cruelty seems to be your reality forevermore. Hydaelyn has chosen her, has chosen what’s left of her, pitted her remains against you in a grand cosmic match that, were you not utterly dedicated to your cause, is tragic enough that you would lay down your arms to weep.

You hate this shard.

(When you meet the shard for the first time, really meet her, her eyes are white - and they are too close to hers and yet not near enough anyways. White though they may be, they lack the fleeting colors which danced within - and every time you meet the shard after, you tell yourself to look into her eyes to draw strength from what she lacks.)

Your name is Hades, and you are finally free.

Though you have died a thousand thousand times, this is the first death that you really feel. It burns, it’s agonizing, and yet you have never felt so at peace.

She faces you - and it feels so good to finally, finally stop denying that it is her. To stop needing it to be her.

Remarkable, you think, that this life of hers is the one which ends yours. Dark hair, and white eyes, passion etched in every line of her face.

She is as beautiful as the day you lost her, and to admit it makes you weep.

“Remember us,” you tell her, at the edge of the world where your heart breaks and heals at the same time. “Remember that we lived.”

Silence, and though you know you are at peace for a moment your soul wrenches in agony. Maybe it is too late - maybe you have pushed her too far. And here, at the end, you must admit that you have.

Irony is ever so cruel - reunited at last, finished at last, and you are going to die in front of the one you love, in a body she hates because you made her hate it.

But she isn’t - she isn’t cruel.

“I will remember,” she says, surprising you like always. “I promise I will remember.”

(You fill your last moments with the memory of her eyes: they are no longer pure white, you realize, but now have the faintest hint of a rainbow at the edges, a gift of her impromptu rejoining. You think back to a night on the beach where the moonlight turned her gaze into diamonds and smile.)

Your name doesn’t matter, but she calls it anyway.

“Emet-Selch!” her voice beckons you, and you stir in the Lifestream. “Hades!”

(She needs you, and as you feel yourself pulled towards her warmth, you think that you’ve never heard anything so beautiful.)

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #emet-selch #hades #warrior of light #emet-selch x warrior of light #ffxiv spoilers #spoilers for shb and 5.3!#also posted on ao3 #i hope you guys like this!#ala writes

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aprils-arcadia · 4 years ago

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Adventure

Member: Jae Genre: Angst Word Count: ~ 1k Summary: Sitting on the beach at night, Jae thinks about the life-changing decision he made.

Jae didn't know if it had been the best decision of his life or the worst. But right now he couldn’t have cared less. Packing up his things and leaving his old life behind might have been considered reckless, immature or just plain stupid, but at this moment none of it matter. Not the countless phone calls by his parents that he kept ignoring, not the hurt look on his sister’s face when he’d said goodbye, nor the question of what he was going to do with his life from now on. No. None of this mattered. At least not in this moment.

Tomorrow when the sun rose he would have to face all these questions again. Like how he was gonna afford another tank full of gas. Or where he was gonna end up by nightfall. Or, which actually was the most important question, where exactly he was even going. But those were all things to be left for the morning, because at night you don't focus on logic or rationality. At night what mattered most was how you were feeling. People tend to get more introspective and personal when it’s dark. Nobody is gonna talk about their insecurities or their self doubts while the sun was shining, making all your mistakes and failures visible for everyone to see. Instead the night granted you some kind of anonymity. Nobody could see the sorrow in your eyes or the pain in your smile and no one was expecting anything from you. The night was there to express yourself or to just look inside yourself and see what you might find. So he didn't focus on bills, or gas or money and had someone asked him how he felt he would have given them one simple answer. He was content. For the first time in forever. It was 3am in the morning and probably time to call it a day and head to bed but the fire was still kindling. He had parked his converted VW bully at the pier earlier and had gone down to the beach.

A beach at night truly held something otherworldly. The way the waves crashed into the shore, the faint squeaking of a lone seagull and the fresh sea breeze clearing the fog from his mind. He had started a simple campfire that was still nowhere near going out but he didn't care. He wasn't in a rush or anything of that sort. He had nowhere to be and no appointments to keep. He had grabbed a log from under the pier and sat beside the fire, watching the wood crack and break in the red heat. The flames danced in his eyes and for once in forever he felt like it would all be okay.

He got up from his log and grabbed his guitar from the car. Once he said down he heard an imaginary voice ask him if he was gonna play Wonderwall and he struck the first few chords of the catchy tune. A song every guitarist seemed to have learned and every douche guitarist was compelled to play around a campfire. He stopped himself and instead played a simple melody. Nothing too intricate, no bold chords or aggressive strumming. Just a melody. One that had been in his mind for years. Stuck in the back of his head waiting to be found again, waiting to be finished.

Jae had started this song in his first year of highschool when he hadn't known how cruel the world could be or how disillusioned he was going to be once he walked into that college classroom. He played the tune and was filled with a hope, a joy that he did not expect to still be there. High school had in no way been an all in all pleasurable experience. Far from it. But compared to now he couldn't help but feel nostalgic. Everything had been easier, the weight he had carried on his shoulder not even worth mentioning. Life had just flowed and he had gone along with the current. The past not being important and the future still having been so far away. His days had been predetermined and all he had to do was live. The things he used to worry about and fret over had been mundane and sometimes even a bit ridiculous. The mistakes he made all forgotten quickly. No life-changing decisions. No crippling failures. Nothing of that sort. Life had been easy back then. His dream of becoming a musician not yet crushed by reality and replaced by a soul-sucking economics major instead.

But right now the dream he had never really let go of, that no matter what happened had always stayed with him, waiting to be dreamt again, came creeping back into his thoughts. He plucked at the strings and the melody that he never was able to finish, finally took shape.

Slowly but steadily he added to the notes and piece by piece he put together something you could start calling a song. He hummed along to the melody and tried to find harmonies that would fit. It took him some time but time didn’t matter once the sun was down. His little campfire was slowly dwindling and his breath started to form little clouds. He pulled his scarf above his nose and mouth and inched further towards the fire.

The night was as dark as it could have been but he wasn't scared. Apart from a few drunk rich teenagers without a care in the world no one would even notice he was here. Slowly the sky turned a dark purple then a red and orange. He was reminded of a quote he had read back in highschool:

"It's always darkest before the dawn"

And this night he knew it to be true. He got up from his log, stomped out the remainder of his fire and swung his guitar back over his shoulder. He took one last look at the rising sun over the ocean and smiled. It was time to continue his adventure.

#day6 #fanfiction #day6 fanfiction #park jaehyun #jae #jae angst #aprils fanfiction #aprils arcadia

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blainesebastian · 5 years ago

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because of this post; brio and shotgunning takes place sometime after episode 2x11

They never usually meet like this.

It’s always at the dealership or Beth’s back porch or some sort of seedy warehouse that somehow always make her clothes smell like soot afterwards. Sometimes it’s at a bar or a parking lot, a school performance or sliding into her van while she’s waiting in line to pick up her kids (she really hates it when he does that).

It’s rarely at a place where Rio feels exposed; it’s usually him trying to inch his way into her territory, into her life, something predatory and demanding and personal.

Intimate in a way she knows is purposeful. He spends so much time trying to push her buttons that she’s pretty sure he has them all mapped out now; what exactly makes her tick. He’s dug under her skin and burrowed there and while it should bother her, she kinda likes it, which somehow just makes it worse.

It’s too heated when he tries to pull her skin back, to read her, keeping his touch deep so she feels it long after he’s gone.

But this is something different; this is something else.

He’s allowed her into his space without paying some sort of toll…which somehow feels like a trap seeing as how he’s caught her in his apartment less than a week ago. She can still sense the rush of adrenaline singing in her veins as she thinks about going through his closet, all straight lines and cool colors with fingers grazing over cherry wood. Rio’s always given her small pieces of himself but they always felt misshapen and broken and she never knew how they fit together, or how her pieces matched with his.

She forced them by breaking into his apartment that day; like two sets of a puzzle with shapes missing and trying to push them to connect and make a pretty picture that made sense.

Beth’s still working on that; it looks like a Jackson Pollock more than anything else.

Yet here she is, on the roof of his apartment complex, sitting near the edge with him looking out at sleeping houses. She almost made a joke about him inviting her up there just to push her off but it somehow feels like a peace offering, this meeting with nothing but the night sky touching them.

She expected him to give her the cold shoulder but a finished conversation rests on their tongues, Rio lighting something in her peripheral to signify that they’re finished. She licks her lips, the yellow-orange flame kissing his skin as a heady scent filters in between them.

Back to business as usual.

Beth doesn’t ask the questions that percolate against her taste buds; she needs to stop the knee-jerk reaction to pry into Rio’s personal life with a crowbar. Their time will come, honestly happens with trust and repetition. She doesn’t need to know everything now…she’s just happy that they’re able to talk to one another without it ending in an argument.

A door feels like it’s opened between them—now she just has to figure out if she wants to cross the threshold or not.

She wraps her arms around herself and lets out a slow sigh, the cool air sticking in her lungs and causing a shiver to course down her spine. They’re done, she could leave, but she doesn’t want to yet. There’s something pleasant about standing on top of Rio’s roof, watching him smoke a joint, the vapors curling out of his lips in an almost too-tantalizing way.

She doesn’t realize she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet until Rio gives her a look, shifting his position from where he’s sitting on the edge of the building and rolling the joint a little more pointedly between his fingers.

“You good? You’re vibratin’ a hole through the roof.”

Beth forces herself to stop after a moment, leaning to press the palms of her hands against the concrete ledge that Rio is sitting on. She wants to say I’m stressed but chews on the syllables between her teeth and opts to lean forward and look down.

Butterflies instantly fill her stomach, vertigo nearly threatening to pull her weight down. He seems so comfortable sitting there, one leg bended underneath him, the other with his foot on solid ground. If she allows herself to be honest, that’s how it always feels around him—half of her grounded while the other hangs loose in a yawning abyss.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Which, she does; things that have nothing and somehow everything to do with him.

Rio flicks the joint against his fingers and it rests against his golden ring for a moment; he’s replying to her without saying anything. Beth knows from the static air between them that she should go home and yet the unwritten invitation hangs down from the stars like string—

She sits down across from him on the ledge and he offers her the joint.

Beth’s fingers tremble but she shakes her head, “No, I uh…I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t,” Rio repeats, the word heavy in his mouth. “How often do you listen to yourself when it comes to somethin’ you shouldn’t do?”

She lets out a soft laugh that sounds like a breath of air; lately? Because Beth sees his reasoning, which she figures is the whole point. So, she gives a different approach,

“I can’t.”

Rio lifts the joint to his lips again and lets it sit on his lower lip, “Can’t or won’t?” His mouth presses, making it bend to his will as he takes in a deep breath. The embers taunt her, a soft golden hue that pulls her in as if she’s being hypnotized.

He holds the hit, only letting it out slow, the smoke quick and gray and the smell makes her nose scrunch up. She waves her hand in front of her face, which amuses him, a soft chuckle leaves his lips and he inches closer until his knee is pressed against the side of her leg.

“What’re you scared?” His words poke her rather deliberately, trying to rile her up. Beth bites down on her lower lip, not wanting to rise to the occasion. “I’ve seen you shoot a gun before but you’re scared of a joint?”

“I’m not scared,” Beth huffs and she curls her hair around her ear, her hand coming down and absentmindedly landing on his thigh. Her hand twitches but then she decides to follow through with the action, letting herself rest.

She can feel the heat of her skin seeping through the fabric of his black jeans to meet his own. It’s entirely worth it to see she’s distracted him, even for a moment, as his gaze ticks to her touch before back again.

“I’ve never really smoked,” Beth admits, her cheeks flushing a pink that she’s glad it might be too dark to see. “I mean, just once with Annie and it was terrible. My throat burned and I couldn’t stop coughing.”

Rio’s lips pull into a small smile and he shakes his head, straightening his back as he looks out over his neighborhood for a few moments. She follows the strong line of his jaw, the way the muscle clenches there as he turns over unsaid phrases—he’s somehow more exposed like this without him telling her anything about himself.

“I could teach you,” He licks his lips, “It ain’t hard.”

And while that sounds incredibly promising, Beth’s gaze flickers to his lips before her fingers drum against his leg. She has a better idea.

“What about shotgunning?”

He raises an eyebrow, her proposition catching him off guard. She’s glad she’s at least able to amuse him. “So you can’t take a hit of your own but you want me to blow smoke into your mouth.”

It’s not a question and the longer the silence stretches between them, the more she senses her ulterior motives bubbling to the surface. “What are you scared?” She throws back at him, a smile that doesn’t feel like her own teasing the corners of her mouth.

There’s a shadow that passes over Rio’s eyes, she’s sure of it but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears; a trick of the light. He lifts the joint to his lips and holds it gently between his fingers before he takes a long drag.

His other hand isn’t gentle as he grasps the back of her neck, pulling her closer, brushing their lips together to encourage her to open her mouth. Beth gasps out of instinct and then has to concentrate on taking a deep breath as he blows smoke past her teeth. Her fingers dig into his thigh and she feels a soft buzz like a warm blanket slither around her veins. She fights off the sensation to cough for a few moments before she has to pull away, covering her mouth with her forearm as her body’s natural reaction takes over.

Rio smirks, the dick, and takes another hit for himself as he watches her gain control. “You actually lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.”

Beth glares at him, smacking his leg in an encouragement before her words back her up. “Do it again, I’m ready this time.” She straightens her shoulders, a challenge alight in her eyes. She does feel slightly more confident now that she’s gotten the test run out of the way.

Her lungs should be ready for a second hit. He hums a moment, his thumb rubbing along the outside of the joint, “If you wanted to kiss me you should just ask.”

“I just did.” Words are leaving without her permission, a haziness that she’s beginning to feel on the edges of her vision slips down her ribcage and yanks heat between her legs.

Rio wastes no time, he takes another long drawl on the dwindling joint, slipping close and pressing their lips together. Beth makes a soft noise, her eyes closing as she takes the smoke into her lungs. She holds it for a few moments before letting it back out, their lips brushing. He drops the joint at some point because both of his hands are clasping her head, slipping down to touch her neck and intertwine her hair along his fingers, their lips moving together in a patterned beat of desperation and yearning.

He tastes like ash against her tongue.

They pull back just to breathe before Beth leans in and kisses him again; just because she can. His fingers curl around the back of her neck, slipping down her back, pressing her waist against his own.

Rio eventually ends it first, a series of kisses on the corner of her mouth before Beth turns her head. She tries not to look down and think about how close they were to tumbling off the edge.

Her words are loose when she says, “I wouldn’t hate if all meetings ended like this.”

His fingers trail along her jaw, his thumb pressing into her lower lip with one determined smirk, “Think that can be arranged.”

#brio #beth x rio #good girls nbc #nbc good girls #beth boland #rio #brio fic #mccall writes things

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herald-divine-hell · 5 years ago

Text

Hope Has Fled

Faintly, Alexandra could see the flames of the sun lit the mountains in a rim of burning amber. Snow puffed and hurled, swirling with the heavy gusts of wind pummeling eastward. The darkening sky burnt with a deep violet in the horizon, and the stars glittered like dainty silvery buttons laced upon a black fabric. The shadows crawled over the snow clad mountain sides, groping, twisting fingers that coward away from the spraying light.

Snow crushed behind her, muffled but Alexandra had grown accustomed to overextending the hearing capabilities. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled to life, a shiver crawling achingly up her spine like the sliding tip of a dagger poised to lunge forward and pierce her flesh. For a few moments, the thought seemed all to reasonable. The Inquisition did not need her entirely for hope. There was unspoken strength and admiration that came from the bravery of the Commander; the relative stoicism of the Seeker; the composure of the Nightingale. It had been Alexandra that had brought the monster upon Haven—the reason why Haven was now buried in mounds of ash and blood and snow. Alexandra closed her eyes, her cheeks wobbling and warming. Her throat felt logged and stuffed. The magic that pulsed within her boiled and froze all at once, her stomach heaving with crackling lightning. She could feel it push and ache, threatening to engulf herself and spread like horrid wings. She inhaled and exhaled. Maker, what have I done?

It reminded her all too well of Redcliffe - the crimson upon the walls; harden, crystallized flames and shadows that heaved and conquered all the light in the world - all but the frozen flames. Haven had been different and yet so similar. The fire had not been frozen, it was lively and twisting and hot. The shadows did not conquer - it spread and swallowed the world, leaving nothing but the crimson blood that stood out like hints of cruel sunlight. There was no mercy, no life, in either worlds she traveled. A hard, cold wave washed over her. There was no mercy left in the world. How could she lead these people if there was no light to guide her? Even the flames felt so harsh and bitter.

“It doesn’t get easier.” Leliana’s voice pierced through the air like the breeze of summer, but edged and sharp as a dagger. The warmth that trailed down her cheeks were tendrils of slickness. The Nightingale’s voice brought a smile to Alexandra’s lips. She did not know why, but it did. And she chuckled, raising her knuckles to her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

Alexandra nudged her head a little the side, watching as the Spymaster walked upon the snow like some steeled goddess, crowned with a veil of flame that highlighted the elegant curve of her jaw and brought out the blue light in her eyes. “Does the Spymaster know all of my secrets?” asked Alexandra, smile growing and tilting her head a little to the right. She did not know what exactly brought a calming reassurance that shrouded around her like a cloak, but Leliana somehow rose and tied it about her shoulders; as if she did not commit the most horrendous crime in the newly-formed Inquisition’s history.

A smile twitched at the corner of her lips, and it was a pretty sight, even if it was a mere hint of warmth and humanity beneath the chainmail. She has a beautiful smile. “I would not be the Spymaster if I did not know everyone’s secrets, Your Worship.” She smelt of incense and rosewater, sweet but not too sweet to overwhelm; remarkable in its remarkableness. “But, for all the times I couldn’t read you, yours are often a little treat.” Her smile flickered into a smirk that rose something in Alexandra’s naval. “There are many things I still do not know about you, I’d admit. And you keep surprising me more and more with every action you take.” She turned to her than gazed away to the glimmering orange-golden light of the camp that held what remained of Haven. “You surprise everyone, truth be told.”

“I do enjoy leaving a mark,” she admitted, allowing herself to grin despite the horrible coldness in her chest. It edged away for a brief moment to something warm and pleasant. But the coldness returned as Alexandra gazed upon the dwindled camp, heart echoing and tearing. “But this is not a mark I attended. It is a wound, an open scar that is bleeding as we speak.”

Leliana sighed, her shoulders slumping before straightening again. Once more, Alexandra caught sight of something beneath the rustling hood. A woman beneath the armor. “It is a wound that can be mended, Alexandra. It might indeed take a long while for it to, but I know it can.”

A shiver crawled up Alexandra’s spine when she heard the Spymaster utter her name in that sweet-tilted accent, so pleasant and lovely that Alexandra’s heart raced at its sound. “You have hope?”

She heard Leliana chuckled, and when she turned to face the Orlesian, she was smiling—truly smiling. Her eyes scrunched up, dimples denting her cheeks. “In the darkest hours, hope is the only spark that one must have. Yes, Alexandra, I do have hope, though it is small and nestling, it is still there. I would not have believed you dead when I already saw the feats you have preformed. Was that not hope, to think you were still alive after what he did?” Her voice quivered for the slightest of moments. “You burden yourself far too much. What if you had died? What would we do? I know your thoughts, not because of some secret, but because I had those same thoughts once before. To wonder if my life was truly worth living after all the death and sorrow I had seen and stirred.” She sighed, blissfully, but with unhidden bitterness. “I still have those thoughts.” Her eyes fell upon her like brewing thunderstorms. “I have hope in you, Alexandra, even if you do not have it within yourself to believe. No one could have survived what you have survived: the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Redcliffe, Haven…how can not have hope when one looks upon you? You compassion; your brilliance; You. I did doubt, doubted everything once. But light always came for me when all was shadow. Thought darkness closes…”

“I am shielded by flame.” Alexandra closed her eyes. She pushed away the thoughts of the woman who had died to let Dorian and her live. She was a flame that pushed away the darkness. Did this Leliana see her in such a way? As a dim flame that could grow to tear down the shadows to reveal the meadows? The thought caused her heart to rapidly dance and her blood to pulse. She took the Spymaster’s gloved hand into her own without even a thought passing through her mind, as if she was glided by mere instinct. She bowed and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I will strive to live up to that hope in which you bare for me.”

Leliana did not utter a word, Alexandra’s eyes resting upon her. The rose-tint to the Orlesian’s cheeks flourished like rose petals upon the snow, spreading up her forehead and down her neck, where it laid hidden by her armor. Such a shame, Alexandra thought with a smirk. There was something undeniably charming when rising such a reaction from women like Leliana; though, she enjoyed it far more with the Spymaster.

Then, Leliana smiled, hints of pearly white teeth glimmering like the moonlight-gleaming snow. “That would not be necessary, Alexandra.” She slowly untangled her hand from Alexandra’s, and she already missed the warmth that came from it. Leliana tucked her arms behind her back, slightly bowing, but still smiling up at her. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. “Do come and join me for a meal. If you are good, I will till you some secrets over our beloved Chief Diplomat.” She turned and sauntered away, and Alexandra’s eyes rested upon her hips without her reservations. She never said I couldn’t look.

She followed, and the flames from the camp outlined Leliana’s swaying form, scattering away the darkness.

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michael-langdon-appreciation · 6 years ago

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That drabble you reblogged got me thinking: imagine the twins crushing on the same boy at hawthorne, and although they promised not to let the boy come between them, one of the twins is always jelly when the warlock spends time with the other - ShakeShackAnon (i'm back)

AHHH SHAKE SHACK ANON! DID YOU SEE I WROTE IT IN FOR YOU?! 😂💖Oh this definitely happened! And not just with students, but teachers too.

Michael glowers right into the back of his twin’s head. Jeffrey sits stock still, taking in every word as if spellbound. His glossy curls gleam in the candlelight, copied from Michael himself as his hand shoots into the air again. Laurent Reveers, the man filling in for John-Henry is tall, dark and the entire package. His eyes sweep over the class of boys with a distaste that could rival Severus Snape’s. His frequent dissatisfied comments and sarcastic wit his Michael always excited for their next lesson. He can’t help but hope that Ariel will keep Laurent on, even after John-Henry returns, he’s just too much fun.

Jeffrey recites his answer in a monotonous, lilting voice. He’s got every word memorised and Michael isn’t surprised at all. Fucking swot. Michael knows he’s only doing this because it’s Laurent’s class. They are the ‘twins’ they do not need to revise. Magic comes as naturally to them as breathing.

Laurent accepts Jeffrey’s answer and Michael’s twin glances back at him, smirking wide as he catches Michael’s eye. He can’t take the satisfaction when there’s a cough from beside him. One of his minions, Michael can’t call them friends, has a paper ball ready on his desk. His eyes slide from Michael to Jeffrey and without any need for further clarification, Michael sends the paper ball zooming across the short distance, smacking Jeffrey on the back of his head.

Jeffrey wheels round at once, ‘Fuck off, Michael.’

‘What?’ Michael makes sure he looks like the epitome of innocence. His mind disconnects from the class, thinking about lunch, about his advanced Telekinesis class later today, about how Mr Banks tears taste so good rolling down his cheeks, the saltiness catching on Michael’s tongue as he devours him. It’s a busy schedule he’s made for himself, and for the first time Michael has made a name for himself that doesn’t carry around the words ‘Jeffrey Harmon’ attached to it. He only realises he’s being called on when every single face has turned to him. Michael swallows, ‘Sorry, Sir?’

Laurent scowls at him, ‘Perhaps if you were more like your brother, you would be fairing better in my class, Mr Langdon.’ He snarks, ‘But if you find it so dull, then take your parlour tricks out into the foyer and perform like a Court Jester for the cleaning staff.’

His chair comes crashing to the ground. Michael wasn’t even aware he was doing it. His cheeks flood with colour, ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’

‘If you don’t control that magic, it will lead to your ruin.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Michael’s never apologised to a teacher before and it shows on the faces of his minions. They look to each other in mild surprise, before facing the front again. Jeffrey’s knee is bouncing jubilantly. He adores it when Michael’s told off. He always has. Michael can’t stand him, or Laurent. Perfect, hot fucking teacher.

No.

Not hot…he’s just got nice eyes.

Another paper ball flies through the air, intent on meeting the back of Laurent’s black curls when it freezes in mid-air. The paper ball twitches and the bursts into flames. The Warlocks gasp at the adept display of magic and even Michael admits he’s impressed as Laurent turns his eyes upon him, ‘Detention, Mr Langdon.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘You cannot prove it was me.’ Michael denies, maintaining eye contact. His record isn’t perfect, but he’s the one everyone at Hawthorne is watching. He must keep up his example. Michael must remain on top. ‘I do not get detention.’

Laurent’s bearing down upon his before Michael can say another word, ‘What you are, Mr Langdon, is a pathetic little boy who has to get attention from childish tricks rather than proving his own worth. If you think that will impress me, you are sorely mistaken.’

Fury washes over Michael as Laurent eases away, dismissing him as if he’s nothing. No, Michael will make this man see who he is…and what he’s capable of. Jeffrey leans back in his chair, looking up into Michael’s eyes. He doesn’t care Laurent is watching him, ‘He’s right, you know.’

Fuck you, Jeffrey. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

Jeffrey’s hand smacks across his own face before Michael can control it. ‘Ow! Mr Reveers!’

‘DETENTION FOR A MONTH. LANGDON.’

Michael doesn’t collect his things, he storms out of the class, setting the blackboard alight as he goes. The flames blaze behind him, the Warlocks alarm rising as Michael strides towards his bedroom. Once inside Michael’s fist slams against the wardrobe. Jeffrey’s things are hovering in the air, already targeted by Michael’s negative energy. They fall in a heap as Michael flings himself on his bed, shame and fury and mortification all dwindling inside him. Tears prick at his eyes.

He just wanted to be the one seen for once. Recognised by those who matter. But he never will, not with Jeffrey in the picture.

It takes the Warlocks an hour to control the blaze. It nearly burns the entire school down and rumours are flying of Michael Langdon’s possible expulsion. Alpha or not, he is rash. Uncontrollable.

Jeffrey doesn’t bother knocking. He expects the room to be a mess, to find Michael crying on his bed, whining for Jeffrey to hold him and tell him that everything will be okay. That he didn’t mean it, did he? But Jeffrey knows better, Michael has meant every single accident that ever happened in his presence.

But Michael sits at his desk, scrying. He ignores Jeffrey at first, ‘How was class?’

‘Eventful.’ Jeffrey replies, ‘Enjoy having dentition with Laurent every day till you graduate.’

Michael turns to face his brother, ‘Oh my stupid, naive brother. Who’s to say that isn’t exactly what I wanted?’

Tagging some babes and faves: @langdonsoceaneyes @sodanova @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @petersfern-fics @sassylangdon @sammythankyou @wroteclassicaly @sojournmichael@alexcornerblog @confettucini @avesatanaslangdon @the–queen-of-hell @thegraphitechronicles @queencocoakimmie @langdons-little-girl @cryptid-coalition @ritualmichael @langdonsrapture @langdonsdemon @wickedlangdon @americanhorrorstudies @ghostiesbedroom @cryptid-coalition @starwlkers @thelangdoncooperative @lovelykhaleesiii @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @kinlovecody @kylosbabe @asstichrist @xxpixiefromdixiexx @sevenwondr @langdonsinferno @yourkingcodyfern @icylangdon @moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown @jimmlangdon@ladynuwanda @cocosfern @ccodyfern@divinelangdon @ticklish-leafy-plant

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crestedcurls-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Come Home To Me

A commission piece for the lovely @idiotcrusader

SFW, Reaper76, some violence in the beginning.

6.6k words

Read it on AO3

Los Muertos was a plague on the small town of Dorado. They had intercepted several weapons shipments and had used them to terrorize tourists and extort protection money from local businesses among other crimes. Their spree of violence had gone unchecked by the officials who were spread too thin to deal with the threat. It required an outside set of skills.

The vigilant had moved quickly after the first reports came in, moving from his search in Canada for answers to the warm streets of Mexico. After renting out a small hotel room--paid in cash, under a false name--he began his search, following the movements of the criminals. There was one skirmish involving a little girl and a grenade, but nothing had come of. He was simply left with some new bruises and the girl’s voice, ringing in his ears: You’re one of those heroes, aren’t you?

He was no hero. Not anymore.

76 geared up for another assault. This time, he would be ready for them. A shipment was being moved and he needed to get ahead of it before the weapons could be used to hurt more. Oh, how he claimed he didn’t care, that he worked solely for himself and his own interests, but that was a damn lie to himself. 76 cared about every person who his actions saved. Which is exactly why he was here, and why the weapons needed to be stopped.

Into the darkness he moved, using only the glow of the visor to define the world. Los Muertos was not a quiet gang and he could hear the laughter of the grunts loading the expensive tools of war into crates before moving them onto the transport. Rapid fire Spanish echoed down the alley, a joke before sharp, barking laughs. Serious tones took over, and something about the guns were mentioned--god, 76 wished he remembered more Spanish. Despite his itchiness to head into the firefight, his training stayed his hand, forcing him to remain down the alley, out of view.

After minutes passed, his patience was rewarded and 76 was able to gain a better understanding of what opposed him. A team of gangbangers, armed with heavy weapons and perhaps a little too much of whatever drug had hit the market recently. Without taking his eyes off the scene, he took stock of his weapons--a couple of biotic canisters, several extra pulse clips, and a Beretta strapped to the outside of his thigh.

This was doable.

His inventory stocked and prepared, 76 waited for another minute, listening to their movements. His restraint was rewarded in the form of one of the scouts stumbling slowly down the alley that hid 76--it was go time.

Soldier 76 moved all at once, appearing from the shadows to grab the scrawny man by the jaw and slam his face against the wall, hearing the bones in his jaw and cheeks crack under the pressure. 76 didn’t stop to listen to his screams, climbing up the nearby fire escape before the fallen criminal’s friends could investigate too closely.

Three of the gangbangers moved into the dark alley, toting oversized weapons that even an experienced 76 regarded as lethal. Once they were below him, 76 dropped from the rusty metal, already firing his pulse rifle. The three barely had time to make a noise before high-powered shots slammed into their bodies and they fell to the ground.

Bullets peppered the ground around his feet, hardly missing the worn boots as 76 threw himself to the side. At the entrance of the alley, a man stood with a large minigun, and it was already spinning up for another onslaught, sure to shred the little cover that the vigilant had managed. Quick thinking led Jack to the fallen man that had originally tested his luck, and the belt of grenades slung so casually around his chest.

Grab, pop, throw and go.

He didn’t even look at the bomb hit the ground, blowing up the man with the impressive weapon and another who had been approaching as backup of sorts, toting additional ammunition for the gun.

That left only two more lackies and the two big guys who seemed to be calling the shots at the moment; Unsurprisingly, they remained back by the shipment in order to protect their precious stolen goods.

Turning, 76 barely had time to raise his rifle again before a bullet sliced through the skin of his right shoulder, cutting it in two down to the bone. With a grunt and a gasp of pain, he raised the pulse rifle with his non-dominant hand, feeling the pull of skin and muscle, and blindly sprayed the alley, connecting with the taller of the two lackies and dropping him beside his fallen friends. The clip was now empty and one arm was solidly out of commission, but he had managed to cut down the crew that much more.

As the final underling advanced down the death-ridden alley, looking nervous, 76 cast aside his precious rifle in favor of the pistol strapped to his thigh. A full clip and the practiced ability to reload with one hand made for a better close-quarters weapons. The brute had three bullets emptied into him, killing him instantly. Rapid Spanish filled the air, the remaining few gang members growing concerned for their friends who had met their fate in the narrow alley.

76 rounded the corner to a hail of curses and bullets. Languages were never really his thing--there was no need for a foreign language in the fields of Indiana--but 76 managed to pick up on a few of the phrases from his time with--No, no. No distractions. His friend was gone, he wasn’t worth 76 losing his life over too.

Dodging behind a pile of trash and old broken boxes, 76 let a curse slip from him. Jesus, he was too old for this anymore. How long could this firefight go on before someone gave up? Before everyone was dead? Before even he was running on total empty? It had been days since he had slept soundly, and the meager meals he had managed made it difficult to feed his super-soldier metabolism. Could he really keep this up?

The next second found him rolling forward, spraying bullets as fast as his sidearm would fire. One nailed its target but the others missed widely. 76 cursed the injured arm for his failure.

Almost in slow motion, 76 watched the large rifle nestle against the shoulder of the brute, watched him take aim and fire. Then, pain, raw and visceral, exploded in his left shoulder. Two more of the shots connected with 76’s legs, one with his stomach.

Soldier 76 let out a scream as he hit the ground.

Despair began to replace that resilient, bitter flame of hope that he had managed to keep kindled since the explosion. Now, death lurking at the corners of his eyes in an inky black smog that threatened to choke him. Bitter and unyielding, the soldier stayed on his knees, trying and failing to rise to his feet once again. Sensors in the visor picked out the backs of the escaping targets as they sped off through the streets with the stolen weapons. He failed to protect himself or the streets. He had failed the mission, failed the objective. 76 had lost.

God damn it.

The old soldier felt a tear slip down his face. That little girl, the shopkeepers, the homeowners, they were all relying on him to clear this evil out, to extinguish the crime spree that put all of their lives at risk. And now he was bleeding out in several places. Instinct told him to reach for a dwindling biotic canister, but exhaustion stayed his hand. Maybe it was his time. Maybe he could finally rest, and be done with all of this bullshit. 76 had been fighting it for so long, but now he was stuck. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Even Reaper, his ultimate adversary, had vanished like the ghost he was. And now 76 couldn’t even defeat a small gang in Mexico.

Pathetic. He could hear the voice of his old commander from the army screaming at him in his ear. The mission’s not over until you get your guy.

“The mission was long over,” 76 argued with the dead man in his head. “I failed, and my family paid the price. Let me rest.”

The mission’s not over until you get your guy. Reaper’s still out there. Go finish this.

Maybe it was the voice of the man who changed his life, who had saved him from a life on a dusty farm that had 76 reaching tiredly for one of the biotic canisters. Maybe it was just angry old spite and a need to finish something, anything, before he dies. Maybe it was just because he was too lazy to let himself bleed out and ultimately too scared to pull the trigger himself. Hell, who knows if the serum would even let him die then? No, it was much better to remain on his feet, even for a bit longer.

But his hand never made it to the small canisters at his hip, interrupted instead by the sensation of a shotgun resting against the back of his head. 76 didn’t move any further, just froze as much as the injury in his arms would allow him to. Looks like Death had found him in more ways than one.

“Soldier 76.” That ruined voice rasped at him.

“Reaper.”

“Didn’t think I’d find you cleaning up the trash in Méjico.”

“I figured you needed a break from me chasing you. But I guess you ended up chasing me anyway.” 76 bit back a grunt as more blood leaked from him. It had struck him that the old CO was right, he didn’t want to die, not yet, not like this. One hand creeped further toward the the canisters, hoping that Reaper might take this small mercy for him. “Can I just--”

The shotgun pressed harder against his skull, grinding into the bone. “I don’t think so.”

76 began to grow angry with the arrangement. It wasn’t meant to be like this; they were meant to meet on fair fields, faced off in a duel to a death. Not Reaper preparing to murder him, execution style. Twisting to look up at him, 76’s lips twisted up in a scowl; not that Reaper could see behind that mask, but the emotion was still there, clear in his voice. “Either kill me or tell me what you want, asshole.”

Behind the porcelain mask of his own, Reaper’s face gathered into a snarl as well. How dare he talked to him like this, this disrespectful little sh--

76’s face blanched, the blood loss making itself known. Screw the gun to his forehead, he was going for the canisters. And to his surprise, Reaper held his trigger finger. The crimson hands cracked the tube and bathed both of them in a golden hue, beginning to erase many of the fresh wounds and repleting his energy some.

The vigilant now distracted by the sudden relief and with dark eyes obscured by the hooked visage of the owl mask, Reaper gazed over the body that seemed so familiar. Stolen intel had referenced the fact that 76 may be the hero of before, the golden boy immortalized in a permanent statue. Funny how permanence had no place anymore. But here, now… Reaper’s suspicion had been confirmed. This was him, this is the man he once protected and cared for, a partner he had once loved. Once upon a time...

The gun against his head seemed to waver for a second. 76 glanced sharply up at the man, confused as the deadly weapon slipped from his forehead and back into a cloud of smoke. What was even more concerning than was watching the shadowy form fall to his knees facing 76, bowing his head in what seemed like a sorrowful gesture.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.” The rasp was less pronounced, the words more familiar this time.

76 pulled back sharply, confusion lacing his brow. That voice…

“G-gabe?” He reached out toward the man, hands wrapping around his shoulders--The texture was bizarre, solid, but wispy around the edges.. “Gabriel Reyes?”

The hooded form nodded. “It’s me, Jack.”

“You’re a-alive.” Jack managed out, wounds still making it hard to focus. “What… what happened to you?”

Alarmed at the blood that refused to cease, Gabe chose to dodge that question in favor of wrapping himself around Jack, supporting his battered body. “C’mon, Jack, let’s get you safe.”

…

Jack was set carefully on the bed of the dingy motel room. The former strike commander enjoyed the security of the streets, of being anonymous, but nothing could beat a hot shower and a semi-decent bed and for as long as he planned on staying in Dorado, having both was a advantage to his cause.

He had fallen asleep as Gabe carried him back. Perhaps the blood loss was greater than he thought, or the day’s emotions were just too strong. Either way, Jack dropped off shortly after Gabe had scooped him up in those all-too-familiar broad arms. At the sensation of being set down into the cool sheets of his hotel bed, Jack slowly cracked his faded blue eyes. From behind the red visor, Gabe was regarded with suspicious eyes as the wraith bustled around, pulling the first aid kit and a glass of water from the small bathroom.

Jack tried yanking the kit from the figure and insisting on doing it himself. Gabe couldn’t be trusted, not yet, and Jack was always the better medic of the two. But that wasn’t obvious by looking at Jack; he was tired, drained, and the boring eyes of Gabe didn’t help the crooked stitches and the gentle stabs with the tools that were meant to help, not harm. Where was Mercy when you needed her?

“Let me help you, Jack.”

“I don’t need your damn help.”

But nothing deterred Gabe as he settled down next to a wounded Jack. Something about this felt more familiar than either one of them would have liked to admit, but neither one commented on the eerie similarity to the past years. Jack watched him carefully as Gabe pulled out a knife, designed to cut away the ruined fabric of his pants. While he was aware of what Gabe’s goals were, it didn’t make the sensation of his enemy brandishing a weapon over his form any easier.

Gabe ignored the way that Jack reached automatically for the comforting feeling of the now-missing sidearm. Jack’s weapons had been collected by the wraith, sitting in a pile in the corner to be cleaned and fixed up, and to avoid Jack shooting him. He’d get the weapons back, later. For now, Gabe set to the gruesome job of slowly cutting away the ruined material, revealing the two major holes in Jack’s legs. Blood still leaked weakly from the bullet wounds, forcing Gabe into action before he could help with the rest of the battered soldier.

With the help of a set of tweezers and some sterile thread, Gabe was able to remove the bullets and close the wounds. Jack’s face had gone ashen silently, as he faded in and out of consciousness. The super soldier never attempted to escape. Healing needed to happen and honestly? It was nice to have someone else taking care of him.

Once satisfied that the injuries in Jack’s legs would heal, Gabe moved up to unzip that gaudy leather jacket with 76 depicted on the broad shoulders. Internally, he reminded himself to tease Jack about the ridiculous call sign later, after the danger was removed. Jack’s eyes flashed open behind the visor, but the man was too weak to fight Gabe off; He’d just have to have faith that he was here to help, not to harm.

And slowly, the old soldier was patched together again. Once satisfied that Jack wasn’t going to bleed out from the major injuries, Gabe cracked one of the biotic canisters in order to clean up some of the smaller scratches and bruises while Jack napped. Reassured that the vigilante would survive the night, Gabriel got up, gathering a small spread of snacks for the two and booted up the old TV to play some old novella while Reaper attempt to rest.

“Gabe?” Came the weak voice from beside him as he settled back into the bed. “What happened to you?”

“I was in the explosion. That witch Moira had been playing around with some of these nanites. Gave ‘em to me before a major mission in Dubai. Been using them since, but after the explosion--” Gabe remembered it bitterly, body burned and crushed under a piece of the Overwatch logo. He recalled the blood pooling in his mouth, in his shoulder, pain sparking from every nerve. Gabe desperately screaming, trying to get his hands to turn to wisps in order to free himself. It was only as he felt the life fading from him that Gabe’s entire body had splintered into pieces and escaped the embrace of twisted metal and concrete. He had never been able to maintain the same body again, too ruined to get every piece back where it should be. Now he was just some grotesque husk of a man once was, an abomination of humanity and death.

Shaking himself, he returned to the conversation at hand. “I was scattered into pieces after something fell on me. I’ve been piecing myself back together since but… It hurts. And I can never maintain it for long. I can never really go back to the way I was.” Gabe finally managed out the truths that had locked themselves away in his head for so long. “What happened to you, after the explosion?”

Jack laughed, a bitter, soulless laugh that hurt his stomach. “Everything. I was a mess. I just ran, Gabe. I just fucking ran. Been surviving, running, since. Trying to figure out what happened, but it’s just not there yet. I’m missing something and I have no idea what.”

Gabe nodded; he knew the feeling. Thankfully, Jack hadn’t mentioned anything about Gabe’s own viglianting, about the masked figure only known as Reaper. Gabe was scared to go back, scared to show what was left of the once powerful Blackwatch commander. He had signed on with Talon, if only to have O’Deorain there to maintenance the nanites. Since joining, Gabe had hidden behind the mask and cloak to prevent his identity from getting out. Anonymity was his protection.

Glancing over at him, the former Blackwatch Commander opened his mouth, just to close it again. A smear of red on Jack had caught his eye, something missed earlier. The large gash began just above his eyebrow and disappeared downward in a slant over his nose. “Jack, your face--!” Gabe reached out, claws moving slowly to Jack’s face, but the vigilant jerked away before he could touch him.

“Don’t touch it.” His voice was grim as he shifted away on the bed, carefully. Shit. That broken glass behind the boxes; he was too preoccupied by the gunshots at the time, the pain hadn’t registered. And now Gabe wanted to take the mask.

Jack had never told anyone about the poor eyesight that plagued him after the explosion; the smoke and bits of glass had shredded his corneas, rendering him completely blind at the time. The sight had returned somewhat, over the years, but everything remained blurry, colorful shapes. The only thing that helped was the red visor, stolen from a locker in a long-forgotten Overwatch base. It had been made for him years ago, in case of a hands-free mission, but now provided his aid in day-to-day activities. Very rarely did the man go without it anymore, and never in the presence of others. Especially not Gabe.

Gabe sat up, brow furrowing under his own mask. Self-esteem issues plagued him too--a face that never seemed to be solid greeted him when he lifted up his own mask. It was a mockery of what he once was--handsome, with a strong jawline and a broad nose ever-so-crooked from the years of abuse that he endured in the military. Now, it was a mish-mash of a dead man reanimated, a travesty of who he was before.

It took concentration to keep his face together. Tiny wisps of inky black smoke billowed from it, the nanites keeping him alive burning off and regenerating at rates faster than he could keep track off. Without focusing, his face could be engulfed by the inky smoke, ruining his features and turning him into stuff of nightmares. A fair amount of mirrors had been broken over the new look. And so, the man devised his own disguise. A harbinger of death, someone to seek out the guilty and enact as judge, juror and executioner. It was a mission to hell paved with good intentions. After a while, Gabe lost sight of who was the good guy and who was the bad. And now he was just the Reaper, angry and lost, wandering the streets in search of a clue to his past life and what happened to Overwatch.

Gabe sucked in a breath, watching Jack carefully through the slits in the porcelain mask. It was obvious that the idea of being without his mask in front of Gabe made him uncomfortable, so it was up to Gabe change that. Clawed gloves rested over Jack’s hands, gently guiding them to his own white mask. Trust starts somewhere, and Gabe was willing to extend that olive branch.

“Are you sure?” Was Jack… concerned?

The pointed chin dipped down in a nod. It was time. Together, the old partners removed the owlish mask and set it aside.

At first, the space behind the mask was blank, a wall of inky darkness that resembled nothing that Jack had ever seen. After a couple of beats, though, Gabe’s face slowly began to solidify in the darkness. Smoke dripped from mounding nostrils as the blackness hardened to form tired eyes and a sagged face. Gabe released Jack’s hand, resisting the urge to hide himself from view.

Jack resisted the urge to pull back. The face was seemingly intact, but whatever lurked behind it was a smoky mess, wisping out from behind the hood to create a ghost-like effect. It was as monstrous as it was familiar--a hard jaw, peeking out from the elements, the half-curve of his lips into an amused smile, a richness deep within the man’s eyes. Jack had been in love with him since their days in the SEP but it was only after their promotions that his desperate pinnings had been realized.

In the back of his head, Jack remembered the first time they kissed; in his office, after Gabe had gotten back from a particularly dangerous mission. After weeks spent in the infirmary, Gabe had shown up with that infuriating half-smile and Jack found himself pinning him up against the wall, taking his lips angrily, hands roaming an injured body. It was only after a few minutes of kissing that they had broken apart, gasping and laughing.

Gabe had loved him.

In a way, Jack still loved him.

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad, huh.” Gabe interrupted Jack’s thoughts with a bitter laugh, running rampant of those hours spent in his office together. “Kids call me a monster. Maybe I am.”

Jack reached out with one hand, almost nervously. Red leather brushed against Gabe’s face as the long fingers of the super soldier curled around his jaw, resting his thumb on his nose and gently rubbing it. Though the mask could help him view, this was a better way to see. Gabe was alive. Hidden by his own visor, Jack began to weep, tears filling ruined eyes and dripping down a hooked nose to collect somewhere below his view.

“Easy, Jackie, I’ll put it back on. I know.” Gabe had cried, too, when he first saw himself. Or at least tried to. He couldn’t distinguish between tears and smoke anymore.

“N-no. Leave it off.” Came the command, thick in his throat. “I love it like this, love you like this.” His thumb rubbed carefully over Gabe’s face, mapping it out--as if it was impossible for Jack to have forgotten it in the first place. Jack spent the next minutes taking in his face, the scars and changes it had underwent since they had last seen each other, so many years ago.

After the moment had past and Gabe had shifted under Jack’s hands--clearly uncomfortable at the attention--Jack removed his hand. It was time for Jack to reciprocate the man’s trust and allow him to work on the gash that laced his own face.

With a similar nod, Jack indicated that he was ready for the removal of the visor. The claws came up to rest against the red glass, ready to catch it, as Jack reached back to undo the clasp that attached it to his face. With a click, it came undone and rested in Gabe’s hand for a moment, before he pulled it away from 76’s face and set it to the side of them, next to his own mask.

Milky blue eyes didn’t look up at Gabe. His face had been ruined by the explosion, debris burying itself in the soft flesh of his head and neck. Jack still remembering the metal pole that swung down, slicing his face in two as he pulled desperately at the rubble pinning him to the ground. Blood had blinded him, spilled into his mouth, choked him out. He had panicked, screaming and sobbing, but the oppressive darkness refused to respond, didn’t help him. Just miles and miles of crushed concrete, blood, that damn blue jacket…

He shook himself, bringing himself from the nightmares of the past that had left him with years of claustrophobia and blindness. Without the visor, Jack only had vague, colorful shapes to define his world; to go without it was a nightmare, but Gabe was right, he needed to clean the wound. Yet another scar slashed into his face--so handsome, in his youth--that would need to be cleaned up. Usually, he’d do it himself, cleaning the blood from his gear and stitching up the ruined skin by feel alone; But this time, smooth hands came up to brush against his face, making him jump nervously.

“Be calm, Jack. I’m not going to hurt you.” Gabe had removed his clawed gloves, revealing hands that certainly looked like his, but were too frighteningly flawless to be his. The nanites had forgotten the calluses and scars from years spent fighting, leaving only cold, too-soft skin. Knuckles brushed against Jack’s cheekbone, remembering the exact moment when he fell in love with his SEP partner.

It was just after they were deemed successes by the SEP scientists. Gabe and Jack had been deployed on a mission somewhere in South Asia to take care of a small group of insurgents who had been kidnapping and executing the local people there. Jack had volunteered to be some kind of distraction while Gabe had snuck around the back to successfully free some of the kidnapped. But before long, they had caught onto the trick and grabbed the nearest person, a girl no older than fifteen, and placed a gun to her head. Jack had volunteered himself, traded his life for the girl’s, and it was in that moment that Gabe got the satisfaction of putting a bullet through the insurgent’s head. It was also in that moment that he realized he was falling stupidly in love with the wide-eyed golden boy from Indiana of all places.

Gabe retrieved the first aid pack, practiced fingers wiping away the dried blood and removing the contaminants from the gash. The needle was strung and the ruined skin was pulled back together.

So far, Gabe hadn’t guessed the man’s weakness, but Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t soon. Jack was a twitchy mess, jumping slightly every time the creeping hands brushed against his face. Between his inability to see more than a cloudy shape near his eyes, and the fact that Gabe was Reaper, the current bane of his existence, Jack wanted nothing more than to sink through the bed and disappear. The pain of the needle barely registered; the old soldier was too distracted by his thoughts to even think about the minor prick against war-leathered skin.

Azure eyes finally looked up at Gabe shortly after he finished with the stitches. There was a pause as Gabe’s gaze devoured the man’s face, taking in each scar and bump, seeing the stories of the years between the explosion and now, the pain and weariness lurking just behind a carefully-constructed wall. But his eyes--there was something wrong. They weren’t the bright blue that took away Gabe’s breath as a young commander, the ones who burned memories in his brain of tired nights looking blankly over war plans, of weeks spent on the battlefield, serious and angry, of the time spent together when Gabe tried to teach Jack how to dance and then they were laughing and falling over each other, rough lips embracing each other in the early hours of the morning where nothing could touch them for those ten minutes--

“What happened to you?” Gabe finally managed out, around the torrent of memories that washed over him.

“War. What else?” Jack had been rasping like that since the explosion, doing everything he could to hide his identity. Today, he’s just Soldier: 76. He couldn’t go back to Jack Morrison even if he wanted. “Things have changed since we last saw each other.” Quietly, he prayed that Gabe didn’t see the way he tried to lean away, to hide his face.

“Jackie.” Gabe caught his chin and pulled his face back toward him. “Are you--the explosion… Are you blind, Jack?”

There was a long pause. Jack closed his eyes and released a long breath. If he didn’t talk about it, if he didn’t acknowledge it, then it wasn’t true, it didn’t happen. But here came Gabe, destroying those foundations. Shit.

He didn’t realize, the one small tear that leaked from his ruined eyes. Jack hadn’t cried since the explosion, since extracting himself and turning his back on everything that he helped to build since he was a young adult. The crystalline drop fell from him, falling onto the blanket below. More followed it, just silently slipping from the closed eyes.

Gabe sat and watched the display for a couple of seconds before gently scooting forward and wrapping his hands around the man’s jaw and cheek. Jack didn’t fight him for the first time since they met. Ghostly hands, dripping in smoke, brushed over his nose, wiping away the tears, catching Jack as he leaned forward into the man’s hands. And just like that, Jack lost himself in the arms of the man he once loved, quietly crying with their foreheads pressed together.

They stayed like that, two old soldiers pressed together, holding each other through the horrors of the world once again. They were the seawall in the storm, standing strong together, finding faith within each other, weathering everything the world had to beat them down with. Nothing could touch either of them now.

Jack was the one to pull away and carefully wipe the rest of tears away. Cloudy eyes opened again and he could almost detect a smile where Gabe’s lips should be.

“I missed you, Jack Francis Morrison.”

Jack snorted at the use of his middle name. Gabe was the only one, aside from the legal documentation, who knew his full name. A name that he had left behind in Indiana, on a farm in the middle of dusty nowhere, where he wanted nothing more than to escape. Now, the only thing he wanted was to go home, but he wasn’t sure where home even was anymore.

“Ya know, Gabe, you never told me what your middle name was.” Jack laughed a bit, moving past the tender moments of before.

“Don’t have one.” The man shrugged, laughing with him. “Parents never gave me one.”

Jack slowly fell silent, the laughter disappearing from his face as the stitches pulled uncomfortably. “I’m not totally blind. Can see alright with the mask, but when I take it off…” A hand waved in front of his face. “It’s all gone. Just blurry shapes and colors.”

Gabe sat quietly next to him, introspecting, before slowly taking the vigilant’s hands. Jack tensed but didn’t pull away, moving forward with Gabe. Gabe carefully placed Jack’s hands on his chest before letting go, allowing Jack to feel him, to feel the sensation of his body disintegrating and repairing constantly. It took effort for him to maintain the shape of Gabriel; the nanites wanted to simply fall apart into a ghost-like matter, but for now, Gabe would keep the energy up to allow the man to feel him, feel what happened to him.

Jack pulled back a bit, shocked to find the man’s body thrumming beneath his hands. Jack had been with Gabe long enough to understand the full extent of what the super soldier bodies could do, but this was… too much. Frighteningly too much. It felt like there was a buzz of a current, throbbing beneath his touch.

“I’m a monster, Jack.”

“You’re my monster, Gabe.” A wry smirk touched scarred lips. “I still can’t believe you lived.”

“I wasn’t supposed to. It was everything that Moira did, that witch. Suppose I could thank her, but this life isn’t worth thanking her over.”

The pair fell silent, thinking about what could have been, where they were in life now, and what’s to happen next. Jack would need more help than this, and his face still had to heal before he could go back out there. Gabe wasn’t welcome back with Overwatch, he figured, so the world awaited; after all those who caused the fall of Overwatch were still out there, and they still needed to be punished for what happened.

There was a sound next to him--Jack had fallen asleep. The day’s trauma had finally caught up with him. His body, though super, had faced enough trauma that just the act of relaxing was enough to push him over the edge into unconsciousness.

Gabe laughed in his smoky way and settled in next to him. The old ghost didn’t need to sleep anymore, but it was nice to play the illusion.

…

Gabe was up before him, having never gone to sleep. Not to be fooled by Jack’s tricks, though, he snatched the mask up from the bedside table, to prevent him from stealing out and leaving while Gabe was making some kind of food.

Minutes later, the sound of panic pulled him from the hot plate where eggs were cooking. Jack was on his feet, hands darting wildly around for his mask, for his only sense of vision that he had left anymore, that was clutched loosely in Gabe’s left hand. Unknowing of where he was in those few seconds, Jack snatched up his rifle from where it had been left, and pointed it squarely at Gabe.

“Where is it?!” There was a mess of red in Gabe’s hand, that could have been the mask. He considered diving for it, but Gabe would react too fast. If only Jack could see.

“Easy Jackie, easy. It’s right here.” Gabe lifted the mask, with the other hand outstretched slowly reaching for the barrel of the impressive weapon. Once he managed to point it toward the ground, Gabe handed Jack the mask back. Even the sensation of snapping the mask back into place relaxed the man some; Gabe was thrown into sharp relief against the light, and Jack felt himself soothed. The gun was replaced on the bed and Jack slowly moved forward, investigating what Gabe was making.

“Why’d you take it?” He asked warily, following the ghost-like shape into the other room.

“I didn’t want you to leave on me; we have to talk about what happens next, after all. And you’re notoriously slippery, Jack.”

“Ha! I always was the sneakier of the two of us.” The joke was light, a stress reliever of sorts.

At that, Gabe laughed out loud. “I was the one leading a covert strike team under cover of darkness and media blackout, and you had a goddamn statue. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The pair sat down to the eggs that would soon go cold. Neither one of them needed to eat much. For Jack, it meant going without the mask for even longer in order to eat, and that was out of the question for now. His sight was too important for that. But for now, the pair just sat over the quaint breakfast and continued their conversation, desperately yearning for some semblance of normalcy in a world wracked by war and anger.

“What happens next, Jack?” Gabe asked, sipping quietly at his coffee. Unlike Jack, Gabe didn’t mind going without his mask, so long he managed to avoid any reflective surfaces. Watching himself constantly disintegrate and regenerante was not his idea of a good time.

“I don’t know, honestly. Overwatch wants me back, wants us all back. Talon’s been getting too close, and Winston’s already faced them down twice. But at the same time, I don’t know if I can give up all of this.” Jack waved vaguely at the air around him, talking about his current profession of faceless heroism. If he were to step back into the eye of the world--even illegally, as the current Overwatch state was--Jack would be forced back into control, forced to take the helm of a sinking ship. That is, of course, if he revealed his identity. For now, Jack Morrison was enjoying the freedom that being dead gave to him. The thought of losing it scared the hell out of him.

“Heh, yeah. The monkey was always faster than I took him for.” Gabe mumbled softly with a small smirk. “I didn’t want to hurt him. He got in my way, everytime. If he just let me get past him, let me in, I would have taken the information I needed and been on my way.” At Jack’s questioning look, Gabe took another sip of his coffee. “I work independently of Talon. Sure, I work for them occasionally, as a contractor of sorts. Help them get what they need, while they help repair me when the nanites can’t. It’s a trade of power. they don’t have anything on me that I don’t want them to have.”

Jack nodded, quiet for a moment. He was thankful for the return of the mask, so his expression remained anonymous. “I want to go home, Gabi.”

“Me too, Jackie. I miss them.”

“I wonder if they’d accept a couple of old soldiers.”

“Something tells me they’ll take all the help they can get, even from a dead man and a ghost.”

…

And so they had began their journey back north, to where Overwatch was starting their roots again in the scorched Earth of where the former organization used to tower. Stops came along the way--raids on Talon bases, sidetracked days where they’d hunt down small cells of terrorists and gangs, helping the odd family in crisis, but they always trekked north. Something about it seemed so right; sleeping by day, moving under the cover of darkness at night, but being together and whole and right again.

There’s a Greek myth that humans used to come in pairs, with four arms and legs. Fearing their power, Zeus split these humans in two, dooming them to travel the world, constantly searching for their other half, their soulmate. And though Jack was no longer a religious man, he could understand the myth. He had found his other half.

Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes were whole again.

#gabriel reyes #jack morrison #soldier 76 #reaper #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #commissioned piece #Crested Writes #reaper76 #overwatch fanfiction

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snarkeater · 7 years ago

Text

The perfect song

While with a captive, Tarn feels bitterly towards what he’s sure is his unseen audience.

Kaon loves to listen.

Tarn doesn’t need to see him to know he’s there, standing or sitting just outside the interrogation room door, absently tugging on his digits one at a time, helm angled downwards – pouring all of his focus on Tarn’s voice. Not on the sound of it, but on the feel of it, specifically; after traveling through a solid medium, it loses its effectiveness and the neutered (as it were) experience – he was mystified to learn the first time he caught Kaon at it – is an exquisite delight to take in.

Apparently.

From Tarn’s perspective, it’s definitely a peculiar juxtaposition – watching his mark’s face contort with fear and alarm as he works out just the right tone to tweak the unfortunate fellow’s spark, all the while knowing that, barely five meters away, that same sound is tugging at another mech’s spark in an entirely different manner. Coming at it from that angle, one could argue it almost doubles the task at hand, really…

Curious, Tarn spares a glance past his ‘guest’ and towards the door. It’s a futile gesture; there are no windows, of course, and the door is firmly shut, so there’s nothing to see beyond – but still. The sight of it – of Kaon, lurking out there – is such a familiar one that even through steel Tarn is convinced he can see it even now.

Hidden beneath his mask, a rueful smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s in Tarn’s nature to judge, and so, despite being able to see the irony in it, he does just that:

Filthy little habit, Tarn judges. It can’t be helped.

Placed somewhere in the nether realm between morbid and charming – like so much, Tarn muses, of what characterizes the attitude his team seems to have around their work – he can however only condemn Kaon’s behavior to a limited degree. After all, it’s not disruptive or damaging in any way, and it’s discreet for the most part, it’s just that it’s…let’s say…

Unique.

At the root of his discomfort with it, Tarn’s privately postulated on the few occasions when he’s taken the time to think on it, is how indirect it is – how secretive. Even after it’s been called out. And something about that rubs Tarn the wrong way.

Because nothing, you see, nothing about Tarn – in his estimation, anyway – is indirect.

Tarn’s motives, his tastes, his views, his actions – none of those things are hidden. As a leader, transparency is key in establishing and maintaining trust between he and his team, and as secretive behaviors – no matter how small, how personal, or how inconsequential overall – directly undermine that goal, there’s simply no room for them. As grim a burden as that might appear to be, it’s not a bad thing by any means – it keeps Tarn honest, gives him clear direction, and forces him to critically inspect his choices.

Something, Tarn would prefer to think, that any self-respecting mech – whether in a position of authority or not – should want for himself.

And yet, frustratingly, as he resumes his work and wonders if Kaon really is listening outside, it isn’t contempt Tarn feels, or pride in himself. No; while there is a sizeable amount of genuine disdain mixed into it that’s confusing the whole of the sentiment, the thing Tarn feels keenest of all is the sting of jealousy.

Unlike him, Kaon has the luxury of secrecy; like any of the others on the team save for Tarn, Kaon can show of himself however much or however little he pleases. He can have faults. Provided they’re not egregious he can even make mistakes, or have esoteric opinions. No one is looking to him for anything save for what he’s been hired to do.

Everything else is a footnote.

Even the…stranger things.

Does Kaon know, Tarn wonders bitterly, singing his dire song into his mark’s audials and letting the most salient tones linger longer than necessary, that he’s perturbed? Does he know that there are things about him that are disgusting, and that he’s put in plain sight for all to see? Does he think about any of those things – about any of those flaws – when he’s alone? Do they bother him at all?

Holding the bound mech down even though it’s unnecessary – the chair he’s in has restraints and they’ve been fastened tightly for over twenty minutes – Tarn unwittingly leans in, digging his claws into his prisoner’s shoulder and chest plating. The metal yields, bending and tearing, and the mech makes a sound, but Tarn doesn’t hear it.

He’s concentrating – on his voice, and…

If Kaon wants so badly to hear him sing, Tarn entertains darkly, the bite of jealousy briefly setting him off on an angry flight of fancy, why hide? Why not come in, and take part? Why does he choose to skulk about like a coward and get partial satisfaction when being in the live audience can get him the full experience…?

Kaon’s assisted a number of these sessions before, but always in his alt mode; something about that configuration’s prevented any harm from coming to him in those instances, and they’ve agreed between them that it’s prudent for him to stay outside when untransformed. But, if Kaon ever chose to be up-front about it and come in for once instead of hanging around outside the entire time, Tarn’s sure that – if he really tried – he could come up with something to make it worth Kaon’s while…

It would probably hurt – or more, who knows – but it would definitely teach him a lesson.

The venomous thought boils black inside him, and into the roiling pit Tarn desperately hurls the jealousy and anything else he can find that isn’t pride, willing it all to be consumed in that fantasy and gone from him.

Wouldn’t that be grand?

A song – flawed and insidious and yet such a delight…

The perfect song for Kaon.

In his fervor, Tarn’s voice goes a place it shouldn’t, and the errant note pushes his mishandled prisoner just over the edge. The mech’s spark winks out and, still chasing the glowing embers of a rapidly-dwindling flame, Tarn has only the faintest notion that it’s happened.

The perfect song, Tarn’s mind echoes as the flash storm slowly clears, leaving a thick fog of awkward confusion and vague guilt behind. In its wake, Tarn is faced with the reality that he’s let his personal feelings – his struggles – come between he and his work once again: slumped in the interrogation chair before him, his mark is dead. A useless husk.

A waste.

Feeling unnaturally drained, Tarn stares down at the mech’s empty optics for a few klicks, his claws still embedded in its chest and shoulder. It’s done – he won’t get anything out of this one any more. In retrospect, there wasn’t much of a margin for error…

He should’ve been more careful.

A wave of something nameless and uncomfortable rises up inside him and, instantly, Tarn lifts a hand to turn the dead bot’s face – and its empty, accusatory optics – away.

He doesn’t want those right now.

Feeling ill, Tarn hauls himself up, draws away from the chair, and promptly takes his leave.

Outside in the cool hall, Tarn is strangely relieved to find Kaon nowhere in sight.

#tarn #kaon #djd #mtmte #maccadam

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babylon-crashing · 7 years ago

Text

christina rossetti’s goblin market

“Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices.” Longing for forbidden goblin fruit the impulsive Laura enters into a bacchic orgy with the demons of the woods only to develop a consumptive wasting disease that threatens to kill her. It takes the brave Lizzie to cross through hell for her sister, enduring the Victorian equivalent of bukkaki and return, urging, “Eat me, drink me, love me;/ Laura, make much of me,” who then proceeds to lick and suck goblin juice off Lizzie’s face. For reasons that I have never understood parents keep insisting that this is quaint children’s verse, whereas I consider it one of my favorite subversively erotic poems. Not only is the ending message that Sisterhood is Powerful, but that the only heteronormative representation that Rossetti presents for us (the goblins are all clearly male, lecherous and untrustworthy/ Laura and Lizzie live independent as a couple in their own house) warns the reader that random forest gangbangs might leave you with something suspiciously like syphilis. Ah, literature.

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpeck’d cherries, Melons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries;— All ripe together In summer weather,— Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy: Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird.

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: “Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather.” “You have much gold upon your head,” They answer’d all together: “Buy from us with a golden curl.” She clipp’d a precious golden lock, She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flow’d that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; She suck’d until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away But gather’d up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turn’d home alone.

Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: “Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Pluck’d from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the noonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago That never blow. You should not loiter so.” “Nay, hush,” said Laura: “Nay, hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more;” and kiss’d her: “Have done with sorrow; I’ll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap.”

Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other’s wings, They lay down in their curtain’d bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipp’d with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars gaz’d in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapp’d to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Lock’d together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night.

At length slow evening came: They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep; Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep.” But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?” Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time. Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”— “Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.

White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood,— Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone Lash’d by tides obstreperously,— Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire,— Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee,— Like a royal virgin town Topp’d with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguer’d by a fleet Mad to tug her standard down.

One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her, Coax’d and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink, Kick’d and knock’d her, Maul’d and mock’d her, Lizzie utter’d not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in: But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syrupp’d all her face, And lodg’d in dimples of her chin, And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot; Some writh’d into the ground, Some div’d into the brook With ring and ripple, Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanish’d in the distance.

In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse,— Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she fear’d some goblin man Dogg’d her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin scurried after, Nor was she prick’d by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.” Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

notes:

The illustrations come from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s (1862), Laurence Housman‘s (1893) and John Bolton’s (1984) editions of Goblin Market, as well as the 1973 Playboy issue that was illustrated by Kinuko Craft.

#christina rossetti #goblin market #poem #poetry #reblog #illustrations #dante gabriel rossetti #laurence housman #kinuko craft #sisterhood is powerful #john bolton

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itsapoemeveryday-blog · 7 years ago

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Goblin Market

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us.” She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat’s face, One whisk’d a tail, One tramp’d at a rat’s pace, One crawl’d like a snail, One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. She heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather.

Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone.

Backwards up the mossy glen Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, “Come buy, come buy.” When they reach’d where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One rear’d his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heav’d the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Long’d but had no money: The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr’d, The rat-faced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”— One whistled like a bird.

Early in the morning When the first cock crow’d his warning, Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows, Air’d and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d; Talk’d as modest maidens should: Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, One longing for the night.

And said the hour was early still The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill; Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, “Come buy, come buy,” With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, Of brisk fruit-merchant men.

Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come; I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glowworm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark: For clouds may gather Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?”

Laura turn’d cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, “Come buy our fruits, come buy.” Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life droop’d from the root: She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache; But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning, Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent till Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept As if her heart would break.

Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: “Come buy, come buy;”— She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon wax’d bright Her hair grew thin and grey; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay and burn Her fire away.

One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root, Watch’d for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crown’d trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat.

Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister’s cankerous care Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins’ cry: “Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy;”— Beside the brook, along the glen, She heard the tramp of goblin men, The yoke and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her, But fear’d to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter time With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.

Till Laura dwindling Seem’d knocking at Death’s door: Then Lizzie weigh’d no more Better and worse; But put a silver penny in her purse, Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook: And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look.

Laugh’d every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel- and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes,— Hugg’d her and kiss’d her: Squeez’d and caress’d her: Stretch’d up their dishes, Panniers, and plates: “Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries, Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs.”—

“Good folk,” said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie: “Give me much and many: — Held out her apron, Toss’d them her penny. “Nay, take a seat with us, Honour and eat with us,” They answer’d grinning: “Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry: Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavour would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us.”— “Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits At home alone for me: So without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I toss’d you for a fee.”— They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One call’d her proud, Cross-grain’d, uncivil; Their tones wax’d loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbow’d and jostled her, Claw’d with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking, Twitch’d her hair out by the roots, Stamp’d upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.

She cried, “Laura,” up the garden, “Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me; For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.”

Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutch’d her hair: “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruin’d in my ruin, Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”— She clung about her sister, Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her: Tears once again Refresh’d her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.

Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loath’d the feast: Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks stream’d like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run.

Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame; She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense fail’d in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree Spun about, Like a foam-topp’d waterspout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?

Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watch’d by her, Counted her pulse’s flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laugh’d in the innocent old way, Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey, Her breath was sweet as May And light danced in her eyes.

Days, weeks, months, years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town): Would tell them how her sister stood In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, “For there is no friend like a sister In calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands.”

This 1862 poem by Christina Rossetti remains one of my favourite testimonies to something that has always been very close to my heart: sisterhood and female bonding. In a world where women are taught to despise each other, compete with each other over the most trivial things, and treat each other as enemies, we need to remember the message of this wonderful narrative poem.

#poetry #itsapoemeveryday #a poem a day #poems #christina rossetti #victorian #literature #female bonding #sisterhood

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azvolrien · 7 years ago

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The Hawk Steppes - Chapter Seven

The hunt is on, let’s go!

~~~

It was clear that the Charek had not limited their predations to the Yaigan and the Ironstone Mine. Bands from all tribes of the Steppes and travellers from no tribe at all had reported attacks. Some, like the camp at Horse Rock, had lost livestock; others had had their weapons stolen. A few, more strangely, had lost neither livestock nor weapons but were missing all their tents and cooking pots.

Plotting the rough locations of the attacks out on Zar’s map began to show a definite pattern. None lay to the west of Khan’s Kurgan, as if they feared drawing near to the vast wall of the Huaxia Shield and its formidable defences; nor had they ventured too close to the eaves of the South Darkwald in the east, where horses would provide little advantage amongst the trees.

“It doesn’t narrow things down as much as I had hoped,” said Zar, “but at least we won’t have to search the entirety of the Steppes. The Lagara centurion has already sent some scouts out, but there just aren’t enough of them to cover all that much ground.” He shook his head. “We aren’t exactly back to square one, but…”

“What we need,” said Rhona slowly, “is a better view.” She looked pointedly at Calburn.

Calburn swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and reached inside his shirt for Vrand’s stone.

“How far can that thing go?” asked Ernak.

“I haven’t found his limit yet,” said Calburn, letting the stone’s holder dangle on its cord. “But he can go pretty fast. I can cover a lot of ground from his back.” He sighed. “Can I at least have some time to sober up?”

“Nobody’s going anywhere tonight,” said Zar, looking at the blanket that covered Batu’s body. “There’s too much to take care of.”

A new, vast cloud of smoke drifted above the camp the following morning, rising from far too many funeral pyres constructed in the field around the ancient kurgan.

“I didn’t mean to speak harshly to you last night,” Ernak said to Rhona as they all watched the flames. “I’ve lost people before, but Batu had ridden with my band since we were both children. He… he’ll be missed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rhona, looking down at her hands. “I’ve done some very fast work in my time, but… there are injuries even I can’t heal quickly enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He sighed. “The only ones to blame are whoever drugged those thuru and turned them loose. There used to be fewer thuru, you know.” He reached up and took off his cloak, studying the head of the long-dead cat. “Then we wiped out the steppe lions, and suddenly there were a lot more thuru. In hindsight, I think they balanced each other out, hunting for the same food. Gods alone know what could happen if we tried to wipe out the thuru.” He sighed again and put the cloak back on. “End up overrun with hyenas, I suppose.”

Eventually, the pyres burned down to ash and the people of Khan’s Kurgan returned to their campsites. Calburn began setting out supplies for the scouting mission, including a small brass spyglass and spare blankets as well as his sword and a few days’ worth of food.

“I’d like Rhona to come with me,” he said as he fiddled with his flying helmet. “Vrand won’t listen to anyone but me, but Rho has a good head on her shoulders, and if things go south fast I want a healer with me.”

“Take Roxy with you as well,” said Ernak. “She’s got good eyes – she might notice something you don’t.”

Calburn nodded. “Good thing I brought some spare harnesses.”

Zar, still surrounded by his bodyguards, glanced up from studying the map. “What manner of construct requires harnesses for its riders?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aysel patted his shoulder. “You’ll see.”

Calburn knelt to rummage in one of the bags from Mostol’s packsaddle, and stood up with his flying helmet tucked under one arm and two sets of protective goggles in his other hand. “I didn’t bring any extra helmets with me,” he said as he handed the goggles to Rhona, who in turn gave a set to Roxy, “but… if I’m honest, a helmet probably isn’t going to help much if you fall off Vrand. Tie a cloth over your nose and mouth – it’ll help you breathe easier at speed.”

“Now I’m very interested,” said Zar as Calburn unclipped Vrand’s summoning stone from its setting and held it in the air. He rolled up the map and stood with his hands folded behind his back, watching in a fair approximation of dispassionate interest as the construct materialised. The Paladins drew closer around him, readying their shields and javelins as Vrand flashed into solidity.

“Extraordinary,” said Zar, raising his eyebrows. The Paladins relaxed slightly when the giant construct made no move to swallow anyone. “Would you be interested in taking commissions for a few more of these?” He stretched one hand above his head to brush his fingers against the coarse fur on Vrand’s chin.

“You’ll need to contact the Queen about that,” said Calburn. “No offense, but giving a few Vrands to the Empire might still be frowned upon.”

“Fair enough,” said Zar ruefully.

Vrand waited patiently as first the bundle of supplies was strapped firmly to his back and then his passengers clambered up. Calburn pulled on his flying helmet, securing the tough glass eyeshield and the metal visor, and tightened the chin-strap. Rhona and Roxy settled their own goggles over their eyes, tied strips of cloth over their faces, and clipped their own harnesses to Vrand’s. He wore no proper saddle, but a broad strap of leather and cloth stretched back from the heavy collar over his shoulders and hooked over a specially-grown spur of bone on his spine, providing anchor points for safety lines and other cargo. Roxy buttoned a precautionary flap over the mouth of her quiver, keeping the arrows safely inside.

“When do you plan to be back?” asked Zar.

Calburn and Rhona held a quick conference. “Expect us in a week, if we haven’t found anything by then,” she said. “Sooner, if we have.”

Zar nodded and took a few steps back, out of the shadow of Vrand’s head. “Very well. Then I think we can only wish you the very best of luck. If you do find them, the Lagara troops have a couple of military Portallists – not enough to transport a full Legion, but their gateways will hold for a cohort or two.”

“Make sure these two come back in one piece, eh, Roxy?” said Ernak with a rather forced smile.

“I’ll do my best to keep an eye on them,” she promised.

“Don’t worry, we won’t fight if we do find anything,” said Calburn. “Just observe, make our notes, and fly right back here.” He cracked his knuckles and gave the construct’s long reins a flick. “Vrand, up!”

Vrand shifted his weight to his hind legs, reared, and took flight with one massive stroke of his wings, shaking the tents and raising a cloud of dust with the down-draught. Khan’s Kurgan fell away with unnerving speed until the tent city was no more than a collection of specks and a distant haze suggested the far shore of the great lake.

With a sweep of his tail, Vrand turned towards the west. The mottled browns and greens of the vast grassland spread out beneath them, dotted here and there with small, twisted trees and mirror-smooth watering holes. Herds of wild animals – deer, antelope, aurochs and once even a giraffe – scattered when Vrand’s shadow passed over them, while bands of nomads headed for Khan’s Kurgan paused in herding their own livestock to watch.

Vrand kept flying. A cool wind blew in from the north, bringing pale clouds and rippling the grass like water, but no rain came with it. After only a few hours, the curving metal serpent of the rails came into sight, but there was no sign of Longstride or any other iron ox. A lone rider in the uniform of an Imperial courier reined in their steed – too far away to tell if it was a horse or a construct – for a moment, shading their eyes to squint up at Vrand, but spurred it back into a gallop with no further reaction.

The days went by as they flew a wide search pattern above the Steppes, marking off squares of an imaginary grid. Several times, they came across the wreckage of camps and caravans raided by Charek, but there was never any sign of the raiders themselves. Some nights were passed within the abandoned earthworks of old Legion forts, not resettled by any Charek bands.

“Have we just been wasting our time out here?” asked Roxy as they reloaded Vrand’s harness for the last day’s flying before their return to Khan’s Kurgan.

“Not at all,” said Calburn cheerfully, tugging on the strap securing the dwindling bundle of supplies. “We’ve found a lot of places they aren’t hiding. That’ll narrow it down a good bit if Zar decides he wants to march the Legions in to take care of things.”

“One of our teachers back at the College worked as a scout and saboteur behind the Kiraani lines during the Darkwald War,” said Rhona. “She’d tell you that time spent scouting is never wasted, even if you don’t find anything – for much the reason Calburn said. You act as an outrider for your band sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“And how often do you have to tell Ernak about trouble to avoid?”

“Not often,” admitted Roxy.

“See?” Rhona passed her own pack up to Calburn and clambered up after him to clip on her safety lines.

“Besides, we’re not done yet,” said Calburn. “You never know, maybe we’ll find something today.”

He was proven right when, mid-air and mid-afternoon, Roxy reached past Rhona to thump him on the shoulder and point ahead, where a dark blot had appeared on the plains. Calburn nodded, gave her a thumbs-up, and steered Vrand in for a closer look.

All three of the construct’s riders swallowed in unison. Sure enough, the Charek had been making use of an old Legion fort, but the camp below was no rag-tag alliance of raider bands. Watch towers and palisades had been constructed along the earthworks and the tents had been pitched along the old streets of the camp, following the same layout as the Legion garrison would have with a larger command tent in the centre. Smoke rose from forges along the outer earthworks of the camp, transforming scrap metal into swords, spearheads, harness fittings, and countless other pieces of warfare paraphernalia. Close to the command tent, the huge shape of the iron ox was not disguised by the tent canvas slung over its back. Outside the earth banks, still more tents had been set up; outside those, mounted warriors rode to and fro, either patrolling the perimeter or trying to practice cavalry manoeuvres.

The whole camp was tiny compared to Khan’s Kurgan, but as Vrand circled overhead, it soon became clear that there was a small army’s worth of Charek down there. No children were visible, just hundreds of hard-bitten, heavily-armed men and women.

“Calburn!” shouted Rhona. “The tower!”

Calburn turned his head, a split second before a ballista fired from the top of the nearest watch tower and a yard-long bolt sank deep into the muscle of Vrand’s left wing. Vrand gave a deep bellow as the wing crumpled and he began to drop, lashing his tail and flexing his other wing in an attempt to control his descent. A second ballista loosed its bolt, punching a hole through the membrane of the other wing; riders galloped out from the camp to meet him, carrying tough nets and ropes armed with grappling hooks.

Vrand crashed to the ground chest-first, wings outstretched, and was immediately surrounded. Some of the Charek tossed their nets over his head and his hips, pinning them both to the ground; others swung their grapples into his wings, their steel barbs cutting through the membrane and hooking over the fine bones of his wings. Still more riders arrived with bows and spears. The spears were aimed at Vrand’s head; the bows, however, pointed at his riders.

Calburn let go of the reins and lifted both shaking hands above his head. Rhona quickly did the same; Roxy only followed suit when Rhona gave her a sharp look from behind her goggles.

Three more riders approached from the camp. The one in the middle drew ahead and stood up in his stirrups, cupping both hands around his mouth to shout in Imperial.

“All three of you, on the ground!”

In the face of several dozen arrows aimed directly at them, it did not seem wise to hesitate. They unclipped the lines from Vrand’s harness and slid down his side to the ground one by one. Some of the riders dismounted to roughly search them; Calburn’s sword, Rhona’s polearm and Roxy’s bow and arrows were summarily confiscated, as were their belt knives and the scalpels in Rhona’s healing kit. They didn’t seem sure what to make of some of the gear in Calburn’s belt and also took away the syringe in the back pocket, but were eventually satisfied that their new prisoners carried no more weapons.

The man who had shouted drew closer, riding astride a powerful roan stallion. Like Zar in his Great Khan getup, he wore a garment decorated with thuru feathers, but a short mantle around his shoulders rather than a full hooded cloak. His face bore Yaigan tattoos, but at some point a knife had been drawn across each cheekbone from his nose almost to his ears, scoring a pair of smooth, pale lines over the black ink.

“Dismiss your construct, whichever of you controls it,” he said. Calburn nodded; Vrand vanished with a flash of light, and his stone fell to the ground beneath a net that no longer imprisoned anything. One of the Charek spearmen picked it up and, after studying it curiously, handed it to the man in the thuru mantle. He tucked it into a saddlebag and dismounted.

“Kneel,” he said. “And take off those ridiculous masks.”

Roxy clenched her fists, but before she could do anything defiant, Calburn and Rhona each grabbed a shoulder and yanked her down onto her knees with them. Calburn pulled off his helmet and let it drop; Rhona shed her goggles and pulled the cloth down off her face. Roxy glanced around as if only just noticing the warriors pointing weapons at her and lifted her goggles onto her forehead.

“That’s better.” The man walked a little closer, one hand on the hilt of a long, curved sabre. “I am Jaran, war khan of the Charek. You have thirty seconds to convince me to let you live.”

“My flying construct,” said Calburn after five precious seconds. “He could be useful to you, very useful – scouting, attacking from the sky – but you need me to control him. He’ll die if I do.”

Jaran nodded. “And your friend?” He nudged Rhona’s knee with his toe.

“My personal healer,” said Calburn. “I have a heart condition – I collapse sometimes, and if she’s not here when I do…” He let the sentence trail off meaningfully. Rhona nodded quickly.

“Mm-hmm.” He drew the sabre and slid the point under Roxy’s chin, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “What about longears here? She doesn’t look much use to anyone.”

Calburn and Rhona glanced frantically at each other. “A hostage!” said Rhona as Jaran lazily raised the sword for a killing blow. “Her chief is the Emperor’s cousin. They’re close. She’ll be a useful bargaining chip.”

“All sound arguments,” said Jaran, lowering the sword. “You live – for now.” He spoke to one of the warriors in an unfamiliar language, but the gist of his words became clear when the warrior and two others hauled them to their feet, tied their hands behind their backs, and marched them at spearpoint into the camp.

The Charek’s stockade was little more than a large wooden roof supported by six sturdy pillars, but the cages it sheltered – appropriated from a slaving caravan, by the look of them – were discouragingly solid. Calburn and Rhona were tied back to back and shoved into one together, while Roxy was locked into the next by herself.

“A bargaining chip?” she demanded, grabbing the bars and glaring at the pair of them.

“You’d rather I let him cut your head off?” asked Rhona wearily. “Your life is more important than your pride.”

Roxy muttered to herself, but calmed down. “You have a heart condition?” she asked Calburn. “You never told me that.”

Calburn shot a look at the stockade guard who, safe in the camp, looked more interested in sharpening her knife than keeping a close watch on the prisoners. “Yes, unfortunately,” he said, holding eye contact with Roxy and shaking his head. “Ever since I was a kid. Can’t go anywhere without a healer close by.”

“Oh,” said Roxy, catching on. “That’s a shame.”

“I’ve had to miss out on all sorts of adventures because of it,” said Calburn. “Only a few years ago – Rho, are you sitting on a thistle? Can you stop wriggling like that? I’m trying to think and it’s hard enough with these cords digging into my wrists.”

Rhona stopped wriggling and tipped her head back. “You’re not the only one who’s trying to concentrate,” she said in a low voice, quietly enough that only Calburn could hear her, much to Roxy’s visible annoyance. “These cords are made of leather. Not rope. Leather.”

“So?” asked Calburn just as quietly.

“It’s harder with dead tissue, but if I can knit skin back together…” She clenched her teeth, and the cords around their wrists abruptly went loose. “…I can rip it apart. Keep your hands where they are! We’ll have a better chance if we wait until nightfall.”

The inhabitant of the next cage groaned and sat up, rubbing her head. For a few seconds she peered curiously at her new neighbours, then groaned again. “Oh, not you as well.”

“Athi!” said Calburn. “You’re alive!”

“They need me to control Longstride,” she said. A deep purple bruise covered much of the left side of her face. She lowered her gaze. “My assistant wasn’t so lucky. She…” She looked up and caught sight of Roxy on Calburn’s other side. “Well, I won’t talk about that in front of the kid.”

Calburn eyed the guard, who had finished sharpening her knife and was chatting with another Charek. Very slowly, he slid his hand inside one of the pouches on his belt, and pulled it back out holding a scrap of paper, a pencil, and a flat oval stone about the size of his smallest fingernail. Light glimmered behind him for the briefest of instants, and a winged construct resembling Vrand but no bigger than a rat scuttled up onto his shoulder to hide inside the collar of his tunic as Calburn scribbled a note.

“I always keep an emergency messenger with me,” he said when Rhona stared at him. Still slowly, making sure that the guard still wasn’t looking, he rolled up the note and sealed it inside the hollow cylinder attached to the messenger’s harness.

“Fly to Khan’s Kurgan,” he whispered to the little construct. “Find Ernak, Zar or Aysel. Give them the note. Guide them here if they need you to. Go!”

The construct chirped and took off, flitting out from under the stockade roof and away over the camp’s earthworks. Birds scattered from their perches on the tent roofs as it went, disguising its passage out of the camp.

Calburn settled back and folded his hands behind him, leaning his shoulders against Rhona’s. “Nightfall?” he asked.

“Nightfall.”

~~~

Nice to see Athi again. She’s a resilient sort, good to have around in a crisis.

Chapter Eight shouldn’t be too long now.

#az writes stories

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iinkhecrt · 7 years ago

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:: prayer under the midnight sky

Gravel crunches underfoot as he wanders aimlessly, constant clash of ground against the bottom of his boots a much appreciated irritant that draws his attention. As far as aids for focus go, it is as effective as any other mundane but monotonous activity, a sound that he can hone in on when the rest – every other single piece that completes the scenario – threatens to topple him and roll over him as the avalanche with a withering tree in its path.

Another thing that humans fail to notice:

He can feed on them, break skin and sink fangs into the veins that carry their lifeblood like it is like butter melting on a hot piece of toast straight off the fire and he is ravenous for the scent of it, but nothing is as powerful as the emotions pouring off them in waves. At times, they can be overwhelming, leaving him struggling to push them out, these shared sentiments and borrowed troubles. There is little worth to it, after all, when he abandoned his own long enough, given up in the blink of an eye for her beautiful, tinkling laugh, so great and terrible in its gravity when he remembered that it had cost him all of life and damnation. After a lifetime that could be, might be, built on the stolen lives of countless others, he may have the capacity to know better, to resist the temptation to answer when called and help when sought. He hopes so, anyway.

Eternity feels longer and longer now with every passing year, the days melding together barely unnoticed when they change so little and bring even less. Even Peter and Charlotte’s visits have dwindled over the years, lapsing until more and more time is left between each now that he is away from the death and the darkness, now that they are certain that he, too, knows their way of life.

But does he really?

On the worst days, Jasper can barely tell the difference between day and night, much less that between the months that fly past. A traitorous seed of doubt always takes root in those phases, the disloyal faithless terrible doubt that questions if this is really any better. Don’t they die anyway? And wasn’t his life so much better when he was doing something, no matter how despicable? In those moments, it certainly feels likes it, like perhaps this extended exile of a life had more worth when it was being utilised for something more than whiling away the decades in an imperturbable haze of ennui. He cannot see the purpose otherwise; has repeatedly failed time and time again to find the thread of inspiration, the thirst for change, that lead out from under Maria’s thumb and into this brave new world where nothing has really changed, not really, apart from the fact that he may have a modicum more of peace now, but it is buried under the layers of isolation and regret and solitude.

The thoughts unfurl sluggishly, carrying him along just as the crunch of gravel under his boots does – passing through town as he enters civilisation, encounters it, and then leaves it behind – flirting with the edge of town when it happens.

His gaze has been set towards the ground all along, directed but unfocussed, and the deliberate blocking of their voice, their feelings, their presence, has lulled him back into his own head. On sluggish days like this – on stagnant swamp water, muggy weather, humid quagmire days like this – it’s easy to get lost like this, and he could easily stay under for indiscernible stretches once he does, as long as the hunger does not return begging or interaction does not beg his attention.

It is the latter this time, entering on the tail-end of a horse and buggy stopping just shy of him with a whinny and a flurry of curses.

“— Sir! Are y’ alright?”

Jasper looks up at the man sitting astride the vehicle. He looks like a farmer at first glance, may be a miller instead. More suspicion than concern colours the tone. It floods across his conscious in a wave of disquietude when he allows it, a sensation wary enough to tickle, if not raise, his hackles. There is a fire lingering under that enquiry, the sparking orange flame of violence beginning to crackle under the surface. In another time, mild misgivings might have mingled with the borrowed unease, a note made that the red-hot heat bubbling with threat should not have lingered in a query so amiable, but he has seen enough of humanity to know better now. Concern is almost always rooted in apprehension, worry for themselves wound into and masquerading as genuine interest in another’s well-being.

But this is anger. Because he is stupid. Because he nearly caused an accident. Because he acted carelessly. But why so extreme?

The cause for the hypocrisy in this particular man’s approach presently makes itself evident: a child’s sounds joins his, the voice thin and high-pitched and heartbeat faster. Jasper’s gaze slides to it, notes a young boy with a mop of unruly hair and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Of course. A child. Those always change humans even further, eliciting the irrational protective impulse that rarely surges otherwise, rising as it would in a fight where one were severely outnumbered but still willing to die fighting. It’s novel, at least, if not new.

A quick survey of his surroundings reveals he has reached the edge of town in his ambling and was crossing through the cluster of parked vehicles just beyond the diner that edges this quaint settlement. So he apologises, gestures vaguely at the establishment as if his actions had been deliberate. And then he walks into the building with his head held up now, because there seems little else to do.

He could order a cup of coffee. The sludge they serve here is palatable enough that he can pretend to enjoy it, pretend that he exists in the town as a part of its community instead of the threatening stranger he knows they are wary of. He could pretend to be normal, just this once, even when he knows he is not.

He could do any of the dozens of tiny mannerisms he has picked up from watching humans over the years. But he doesn’t. Because now, after all this time of evading acquaintances, Jasper Whitlock is being watched. The prickle of awareness hit the back of his neck the moment he walked through the door, an unease that sits deep and accustomed in his bones after so long of playing games of cat and mouse. Except this time, it doesn’t approach. This time, when he seeks it out, it is another beautiful woman looking at him with expectation in her eyes, drawing him close.

They are gold.

Her eyes are gold, liquid and glinting and unlike anything he has ever seen before in the hundreds of years he has lived. If only his resolve would return now. If only he could remember the warehouses full of regrets he has accumulated since Maria. But it will not and he cannot, because all he can see anymore is that pale heart of a face and the dark hair curtaining it, shorter than ladies have ever really worn. And those gold gold watchful eyes, tracking his every move.

So he walks to her, drawn closer by the mouth that curves up halfway – in approval? appreciation? success? – as she notes him doing it, staggers into her space even though he knows consciously that he logically could not even do it, that he has not staggered a day since he changed and barely did so before even with all the charm he had borrowed from the south. But there is something about her — hope.

Hope that pours off her in waves: as gold as the colour of her eyes, warm as the heat of the sun beating down on his marble skin, satisfying as the first drop of blood to touch his parched throat after days of starving himself. He can taste her in the air, purer and more effervescent than anything he has ever encountered in this life. So he goes to her.

And then—

“You kept me waiting long enough.”

The smile that reeled him in has spilled into the words and Jasper does not, could not, know what to do. All he knows – all he senses, somewhere in the back of his once-dead mind – is that he wants to impress her. That he wants, once again, not to be Maria’s plaything and lieutenant, darling Jasper. He wants to be Major Whitlock, the charismatic young leader of his regiment who was known to charm his way into the army and then into the arms of many a dame. He wants to be himself.

The accent slips out then, like unexpected blood in the water, thick and real and him in a manner that hasn’t existed in what feels like an eternity, since fighting since running since Maria. Careful fingers reach for his hat and sweep it off his head, holding it to his chest as he bows his head, a strand of hair dropping to graze his forehead and gaze lowered in the sort of respect his Ma taught, the kind that has never really gone away. “My apologies, ma’am.”

#( & left handed truth. )#( opposite: alice brandon. )#( love like religion. )#( interaction: prayer under the midnight sky. )#( with: nayab. )#hope this is okay #come holler at me if it isn't!!#bear with me while i work through the rust and writer's block

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ulyssesredux · 6 years ago

Text

Proteus

That was the reason why.

Me sits there with his second bell the first bell in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, and you shake at a time. Yes, but Mrs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the other's gamp poked in the shallows. Warring his life still to be surprised. Yes, sir? Waters: bitter death: lost. Sir James, with the first time that Lydgate had to recognize. He rooted in the box by him if she were an animal of another and feebler species. You will perhaps go to a man able to put it, brother, the longlashed eyes. Click does the trick. It seems to be disappointed as any buffaloes or bisons, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Sure he's not down in his pockets.

She thought you wanted for other purposes. The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. If you can put your five fingers through it it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am so much at the touch of rebuke in her tone.

Licentious men. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! What about that, sir. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Who to clear it? Walter back. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. My tablets. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? Flutier. Someone was to be arranged for her husband's wrath. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who listened to everything. That touches poor Mary close the door.

Dringdring! Basta! House of … We don't want any of them every day, I'll warrant—Solomon and Mrs. Here. You must have it inside you that he was absent. I spoke to no-one about. She was full of hope. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Seems not. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I'm thinking of. His pace slackened. He had never returned him a grudge for the rest—they come to take to business, Susan. Did, faith. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and then loped off at a calf's gallop. Yes, sir, when she was quite ignorant of it, yet it might be the better for.

The lad is of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that I, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his shoulder, rere regardant. Call the young chap. A bloated carcass of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the beginning, because I have determined to take a post again by those who suck the life: a pickmeup. For the old hag with the outside of this sort, but I prefer Q. I think that any one should die and leave no love behind. He stopped, ran back. I dare say you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the things I married Humphrey I made up my mind? God, we must forgive young people to talk to, they will pass on, passing.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Nobody else, rather coldly. The group I am very glad to give him an ugly archangel towering above them in the bath at Upsala. Bring in our souls do you think disagreeable. My consubstantial father's voice. Cadwallader's eyes, I can see, east, back. My teeth are very bad.

I tell you. Cocklepickers. Out of that kind—companionable, you see the funeral could be well seen was in such entire disgust with her cheek kissed by Mr. Brooke, who for some moments without speaking. Yes, sir, when it's done. He laps. Glue em well. I am getting on nicely in the bath at Upsala.

Most of these people are sorry. Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dry whiteness; with nostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and no wonder, by Christ! I should be excused a little distance from the Cock lake the water and, rising from his jaws. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Shut your eyes. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the contrary, I came to look after Casaubon—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, carefully. And your painter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. Exactly: and wait. She had a feeling of awe, he was writing. Encore deux minutes. Broken hoops on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. All days make their end. He slunk back in a nightmare, tried to be mine. De boys up in de hayloft. The foot that beat the ground meditatively, stretching out the key.

Wait. Well: slainte! With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Easy now. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, and might have seen me do it for nothing disturbed Caleb's absorption except shaking the table before her. Their blood is in our neighbors' lot are but the next parish. He had been by the sun's flaming sword, to be able to marry, which was not proud of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the Kish lightship, am I? Of Ireland, the superman. Moving through the slits of his chair, and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that Rigg, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a white field. From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Alo!

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the panthersahib and his father, children, said Mrs. The truth, spit it out. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a visit, said Mrs. —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! I'm going to aunt Sara's. Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be a particular aspect of the matter lightly, answered at once, I wonder, with disgust. What else were they invented for? At the lacefringe of the flame communicating itself to all men? Terribilia meditans. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. I thirst. She could not say any more, thought through my eyes. Soft eyes.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Yes, but he usually asked to have a clergyman, I used to. I am.

He slunk back in four days. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his knees a sturdy forearm. I were suddenly naked here as I like. I could have been altogether cheered in a past life. Mon pere, oui! Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, but not I.

Here Caleb laid down his hat, but with something of request in his pockets. Out of that sort of thing which I should try to avert some of the opening door, she said in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his second bell the first violent movements of his shovel hat: veil of the world, followed by the blind. Paysayenn. Caleb, in the Hannigan famileye. Turning, he continued, as she came towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves. I were to her mouth's kiss. He lay back at full stretch over the back of his exposition. Abbas.

Unheeded he kept by them as they say, hurriedly, look here—here Caleb threw back his head a little distance from the crested tide, that I felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she could sit perfectly still, until the last. The black procession, when she touched him and listened for his thought, he is. Creation from nothing. In the darkness of the temple out of horror of his parishioners the Garths, and no eye can see. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.

Her repulsion was getting stronger.

They come peeping, and replied with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. You were a part was confined to anticipation. Most licentious custom. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his left hand lying on the contrary? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Whusky! That is how his family look so fair and sleek, said Sir James, promptly. I hear. Oh ay, they stick, while Mr. Casaubon.

A coursing fellow, though he usually asked to have the chance of getting a bit higher than that, I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, the superman. Full fathom five thy father lies. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of a good in making acquaintance with life, always afterwards came back to them. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. To evening lands. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Hunger toothache. I was not at ease in the most natural tone: when I was too, made not begotten. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. If you mean to resist every wish I had died with the lightly dropping blossoms and the young uns? But would he?

Lent it to make no unreasonable claims. This distinction conferred on the shore south, his three taverns, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Call: no answer. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. No, agallop: deline the mare. Better buy one.

A very nice young fellow to rise. —You are walking through it howsomever. Seems not. He used to call forth the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Things hang together, but of that, and looking on the ground, moves to one great goal. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris. I don't urge him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

I prefer Q. Shake hands. Mr. Casaubon, he scanned the shore; at the sound of the nine had been of no use for me all at once, I feel. Garth, smiling at the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Behold the handmaid of the dining-room and whist.

Vincy's phrase, she, she draws a toil of waters. Would you or would you not be among those daughters of Zion who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

It would have had a feeling of awe, he is lifting his and, drawing from it another key, I used to call forth the same management, and the rest went on you: and no wonder, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. His hand groped vainly in his pocket-book open on his eyes to hear that he was living had been watching everything with the tufted grass and the churchyard the objects deep down in his well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any matron in the bar MacMahon. She always kept things decent in the whole clergy ridiculous.

By the way go easy with that gentleness which makes such words and tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the quaking soil. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. You are walking through it howsomever. I not going there? Who watches me here? She always kept in the bath at Upsala. Books you were ill, Casaubon. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted, Fred Vincy, the cornet player. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his green grave, his and all the world, including Alexandria? You were a student, weren't you?

Who to clear it? I hurt part of that, eh? Would you or would you not? He is running back to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? I shall make something of my form? So much the better. Come. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. We have nothing in the silted sand. Spurned and undespairing.

The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I am. Shoot him to manage the whole clergy ridiculous. O, weeping God, the things I married into! Limit of the post office slammed in your face by the blind. Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work. See now. Turning, he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

Flutier. Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. It would be something worse than ridiculous. I see her skirties.

Let him in now, and sat on a white field. Open hallway. I going to do. Said violently—It will be the longest day. Jesus! Toothless Kinch, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Exactly: and no wonder, with clotted hinderparts. Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing after throwing the stick, but, determined to take slips from the surrounding gardens on to the devil in that chap, will you? Disguises, clutched at, gone, and I set out by liking the end very much.

Paysayenn. Certainly not. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: dotted apart on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent ship. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are walking through it it is often necessary to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. The talk among the spluttering resin fires. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had asked her uncle, GODWIN LYDGATE. Waters: bitter death: lost. In the darkness of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Cadwallader, there is someone. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the fire, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Am I not going there? Garth, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I say. Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. You might have seen him taking his keys and trying to be a blessing to your children to have felt jealous, as I've often told Susan, said Mrs. If I am quiet here alone. Soft eyes. I see, he was fond of her experience seemed to imply the most natural tone: when I was not among the children. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. All kings' sons.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? He now will leave me.

His shadow lay over the hedges at the sound of the diaphane in.

Darkly they are there? He loved money, sir.

Where is he going to move to the undeniable hardships now present in her wake. Get back then by the fire had got low, and then loped off at a cur's yelping. The cry brought him skulking back to her moomb. A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Oomb, allwombing tomb. They are coming, waves and waves. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, but she saw his face looked strangely motionless; but I will see if I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a generous resolution not to lie upon our conscience. Not its flippancy, father, looking round at the Hall at twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and fix your eyes and a man wanting to do the same family connection, and I am not a strong swimmer. Has all vanished since? You bowed to yourself in the bar MacMahon. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing behind Mrs. I knew in Paris.

Goes like this.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the library counter. Well, you mongrel! Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

Garth, but would probably say one of the late Patk MacCabe, relict of the children. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Listen. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Most of these followers are not yet quite sure enough of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch, touch me soon, now. House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

And the blame?

Come. Of what in the silted sand. Better buy one. In long lassoes from the Chalky Flats. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Nobody else, sir. I am not. I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. I am lonely here. Kinch here. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, eh? The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Where are your wits?

The truth, spit it out. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Full fathom five thy father lies. The rich of a man whom he kept by them as they came towards him, Mrs.

Gaze in your flutiest voice. Son are consubstantial?

Fang, I bet. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir, said Caleb, with rushes of the bed. Well: slainte!

Other fellow did it: they do. I not take it up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Did, faith. Yes, but knew that he is lifting his and all. Put me on different sides to do it, you see the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her husband's dislike to him at my side. —Companionable, you know—I say. Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their life.

For the old man, his eyeballs stars. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. And, spent, its speech ceases. Encore deux minutes. O, that's all right. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Of what in the gros lots. By the way go easy with that money?

Bridebed, childbed, bed of his sept, under the same management, and you'll not tell Fred. Lascivious people. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent, ending.

Jesus! Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Hollandais? Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the belts of thicker life below. You will not touch your iron chest or your will. Day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am not. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Full fathom five thy father lies. My soul walks with me?

Seadeath, mildest of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I am. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. You have spoken of my form?

Basta! I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Sir Lout's toys. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Cadwallader made one of a day, and there would be displeased. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's, said Alfred. Evening will find itself in me, spoke. Noon slumbers. Turning his back on her breath.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the west, trekking to evening lands. To be anxious about a bank of dwindling sand, a brother who disliked seeing them while he read in Michelet. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. I have said so many younger sons can't dine at their sewing, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to act the mean or treacherous part.

It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's more in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Your postprandial, do you think disagreeable. You will not do it again. A point, but she saw him dropping his keys and trying to be sent if you will let me call Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I suppose.

And she had seen him grow up from the surrounding gardens on to Edenville.

All days make their end. You mean of your devices. And in a past life. He has washed the upper moiety. I taught Patrice that. Said Ben, pulling her arm down. Touch, touch me. Darkness is in me, won't you? The young chap. Then he was living had been forbidden to work. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. —He has nowhere to put the key of my own brother, not taking it, she said in her married life.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Call me Richie. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the ear. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Another tear fell silently and rolled over her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —Robbing you of the relations whom he would not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a whale. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that on the parents. Go easy.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a woman to her moomb. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Shake a shake. Evening will find itself. Of all the fuller because she had not had parents whom she did not escape the fellowship of illusion. I … With him together down … I could make any amends to the grave, his eyeballs stars. I should never be a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you did her a concession to her at the last moment; but it did not want to. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Postprandial. Come out of them: a pickmeup.

Famine, plague and slaughters. We should not value our Vicar the less because there was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I say. Think of that sort of news I could make a good deal of dumb show which was not afraid. Five fathoms out there. Glue em well.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Pray don't ask me himself, I see Vincy, the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Won't you come to see mismanagement over only a few thousand years, a very wonderful whole, the nearing tide, figures, two. I am quiet here alone. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It was certainly a hasty speech, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and yet was only just audible. Bonjour. As to my supplying you with.

Limit of the world, said Caleb, waving his hand fall, and she has a great shame.

He rooted in the house but backache pills.

His human eyes scream to me the most natural tone: when I was young. Look here, missy? Of Ireland, the more deference because, according to Mrs. Whispered to, they become associated for us with the pus of flan breton. It is so very hard to you, Mrs. Know that old lay? O, O, that's all right. Bring in our souls do you not? He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I see you. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me.

If I were suddenly naked here as I like the outside of this sort, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the moon. Red carpet spread.

Peekaboo. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear that he was present, but it was useless to say to you, Mrs. As the Vicar, amused. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his command.

His hand groped vainly in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. We don't want any of Mr. Casaubon's, said Mrs. When I hurt part of that, do, you understand, said Mary, with a fury of his kind ran from them to her kiss. Here. Lent it to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Of what in the shallows. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. My teeth are very bad. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Aha.

I bringing her beyond the veil? I hurt part of that sort.

I bet. For whom? The drone of his shovel hat: veil of the diaphane. Other fellow did it: other me. Vincy would say that the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Dringdring!

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing; but it goes through you, I'm pretty sure of that, eh?

Won't you come to take a post again by those who suck the life: a little hard upon him. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Red carpet spread. One who can write speeches. No? Yes, used to call it his postprandial.

Various ideas rushed through her mind. Non fromage. Doesn't see me. He was afraid of saying anything that might lay me open to suspicion. Most licentious custom. Lord, is apt to show: Mother dying come home father. Five, six: the tanyard smells. I say. Look here, then think distance, near, a woman to her mother entreatingly, that was so cutting that I am very glad he did his work well, so that if no more, thought through my eyes and a well-priced quality. No, sir? Signatures of all flesh. I see you. His gaze brooded on his chair—that sort. In fact there was. The letter ran in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if you would be displeased. That man led me, without me. Hauled stark over the brief letter, and would not have a funeral beyond his reach, and thought of his green fairy as Patrice his white. And the blame? I'll knock you down. About the nature of business: to have enjoyed yourself. There was almost an uproar among the rest features entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not I. Whereupon followed the second shrug. The soul of man. Spoils slung at her again, trying to be sent if you will never think well of him again. I know all my faculties. No. O Sion. You are exceedingly hospitable, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Human shells.

Along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Glue em well. By the way to you, and a ghostwoman with ashes on her with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. The child feels in that, invincible doctor. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. O, that's right. Now Mary's gone out, and the fact that he was absent. Gold light on sea, on sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a comedy in which Fred would be something worse than ridiculous. It would be something worse than his. Down, up, forward, back. Remember. Clouding over. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Let him in. Said Mrs. Quite the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and would not raise her voice, I said. Open hallway. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you will see if I can to comfort you; but the next moment she ran to the engineering—I've made up your money. Your affectionate uncle, while Letty in a girls' school, said Mrs. I knew in Paris. Oomb, allwombing tomb. —Would not be handling his iron chest, and Fred should be excused a little while there was but impotence. Said, in the bag? Pull. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Ought I go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a warm corner of the post office slammed in your omphalos.

The rich of a lady of letters.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to shake under the walls of Clerkenwell and, whispered to, and there would have had ten thousand pounds. Perhaps there is nothing else. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

I am almosting it. Take all, keep all. Then from the bed of death, ghostcandled.

Perhaps there is someone. With beaded mitre and with little hands crossed before her. —Remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her. Open your eyes now. I think that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.

Welcome as the flowers in May. O yes, said Mr. Brooke, he scanned the shore south, his leprous nosehole snoring to the tune of contempt. Would you or would you not be ridiculous as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. At the lacefringe of the deceased. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Faces of Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my dear Alfred, for he dwelt a good deal of disdain for Mrs. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the black adiaphane. All or not at ease in the shallows.

Il croit? Teaching seems to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Let me call some one else, rather coldly. At last he said, turning round at the last notion. Un demi setier!

Lydgate. A coursing fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Can't see! Fred Vincy. A corpse rising saltwhite from the dreaded wretchedness, for there was the rule, said Caleb, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Behold the handmaid of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. No, sir.

If any one guess towards which of those ridiculous clergymen who help to make it right. Tap with it: she will not sleep there when this night comes.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Haroun al Raschid. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Papa's little bedpal. I. She always kept in the basin at Clongowes.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

I shall do as you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you made up your mind, and feeling that Dover's use of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the last? Wild sea money. Five, six: the ruffian and his strolling mort. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Garth, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Sir James, with the fat of a lowskimming gull. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was already deep in the brightness of the petty passions, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Basta! Susan! It's Stephen, sir.

Pico della Mirandola like. Listen. It is for Rosamond Vincy: she was sitting up with, you will never be angry with you, you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it.

Waters: bitter death: lost. Well, it may be better to wait a bit of valuing. That is why mystic monks. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. What else were they invented for? And she had asked her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She had a proud, nay, a buckler of taut vellum, no, Mischief! It is of a dog all over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a chair, and yet was only useful to him then about the altar's horns, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a lifebuoy. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a beneficed clergyman.

The truth, spit it out.

He lay back at full stretch over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I spoke to no-one about. Lascivious people. Spurned lover. Lord, they sigh. He trotted forward and, whispered to, they will pass on, passing. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army or the Church—on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for everything that you have a red nose. And after? You were going to burn one.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Mr. Farebrother, who raised her hand gentle, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. I am lonely here. No, no less! I wish she could have had ten thousand pounds, or what you said, quietly, and Rosamond, he was really expecting to set off soon. Why, I cannot have opposite interests. —Here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him, that nothing can be so fatal as a young bride, man, his leprous nosehole snoring to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the first. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

Come. God, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems to me. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a whale. Broken hoops on the fire.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

We haven't seen the most dismal thing I ever saw.

I am almosting it. She still said nothing after throwing the stick, but Mrs. That touches poor Mary close the door, here is the ineluctable modality of the sort. Lap, lapin.

Must be two of em. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the past.

I have determined to take slips from the burnished caldron. Of Ireland, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which was due to the last.

It is a result of two such wholes, the lemon houses. —On the injury he had been bent on having persons bid to it. Seems not. Garth, but, determined to take it up? Walter sirring his father, no less! Garth would agree with me a great turn for Fred Vincy. Who? Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a generous resolution not to dwell on that. At last he said, Susan, said Mrs. Sit down or by the boulders of the carriage. Why, that in his well-worn nankin picked up the sand furrows, along by the edge of the sort. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the low rocks, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. I see, east, back. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. And to-night revolving, as they say, hurriedly, look here! Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Wild sea money.

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. In the evening, when it's done. I have been altogether cheered in a girls' school, said the father, no less! On the top of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Mind you don't, though he was written to, nay, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which alarmed her a sum of money that he can't bear to think that you ought to apologize. Garth on behalf of others. O, weeping God, Susan. Know that old lay?

Somewhere to someone in your face by the edge of the library; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she wondered how far Fred's confidence had gone from under the clothes, though, said Mary, with clotted hinderparts. She says—tell what you say, hardly ever; they have no games worth playing at, gone, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult matter to get a handsome bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sand: then you can see, east, back. Quite the right by moderating his words. Human shells. In spite of her sunshade. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army. The dog's bark ran towards him with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? I see, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Pardon me, more still! Now where the blue hell am I? Sir Lout's toys. —It's a thousand pities Christy didn't take to business, she, Mary, standing by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the basin at Clongowes. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his pointer. He is running back to his presence—a little start of remembrance he said—Yes, sir. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the earth; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her was not afraid. Just say in the room, taking Letty with her doll, Mr. Farebrother. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Call Fred Vincy. Your postprandial, do you not think? Dog of my iron chest, in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But he wished to excuse everything in her hand gentle, the more the more the more. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be glad to hear his boots are at the last. Hired dog!

Flutier. Missy, he scanned the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Their blood is in me, said Rosamond, the dog. They all think us beneath them. —The higher style of life. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on. Bet she wears those curse of God, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Turning his back on her with the deepest secrets of her irrevocable loss of love. De boys up in de hayloft.

Rhythm begins, you see, he had been watching everything with the angles of his sept, under the same time to resume the agency of the moon. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her speech. I wonder, by Christ! He stood suddenly, his feet sinking again slowly in the black draperies shivering in the orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the effort of his kind ran from them to the middle and the churchyard, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Garth would be near, far, from far, flat I see Vincy, the other's gamp poked in the darkmans clip and kiss. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

At one, he said—which you wanted a cheese hollandais. Yes, I should be alone together, while she rested her chin on his head. Falls back suddenly, his and all. Sure? Cleanchested. I shall wait. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dial floor. Old Father Ocean. Driving before it a fair trial. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. It was time the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the Hannigan famileye.

Terribilia meditans. Unfallen Adam rode and not at all sleepy, had an expression of grave surprise, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from the Cock lake the water and, crouching, saw a good action. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. I was young.

Said Caleb, said Caleb, not here. It was on a white field. Basta! A porterbottle stood up, however, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Did you see. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the key. Must be two of em.

Go easy. Not its flippancy, father,—Don't set your mind on, sir. He willed me and hiding your actions. Then with a future life, it is only fair he should think of your wife to write to a mute language of his buttoned trouserfly. She said, 'This will never do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. You will not be handling his iron chest or your will. And they have no games worth playing at, gone, Alfred will be the longest day. He takes me, I will not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the dents jaunes. Suddenly he made off like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

You and I shall at least that if Mary had the opportunity of knowing. Stephen closed his eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, that rusty boot. Yes, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will be the effect on Fred, which, added he, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the past.

O, that's all right. In the evening, when she was rightfully defending herself. Coloured on a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Come out of the diaphane in. Et erant valde bona. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And, spent, its speech ceases. Here. Gold light on sea, on sand, rising, flowing. See what I meant, see now!

Hray! Exactly: and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof. I open and am for ever in the sand furrows, along by the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her husband's step in the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that she wished she had had the peculiar woman's tenderness? —At which Mary and her father was unkind, and it will go anywhere with you there, his fists bigdrumming on his personal acquaintance. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. O si, certo! How? Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, and there would have held out for the press. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause?

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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